


Winds of change and chance

by MirandaTam



Series: Jedi Shmi AU [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Jedi, Jedi Shmi AU, Jedi Training, Politics, This work got deleted because I forgot to take down a donation link, so here it is again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 11:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7843864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaTam/pseuds/MirandaTam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ignorance, yet knowledge.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Shmi's training continues; she is not the only one learning, nor is Yoda the only one teaching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I missed one of the links when AO3 was like, "take down your donations links!" 'cause this got deleted this morning. No content is changing, this is the same story as before. Because AO3 can't give you more than one warning before they take down your works. That would just be silly.
> 
> Title from the Prince of Egypt, again.
> 
> And that's why we share all we have with you  
> though there's little to be found.  
> When all you've got is nothing,  
> there's lots to go around.  
> No life can escape being blown about  
> by the winds of change and chance  
> and though you never know all the steps  
> you must learn to join the dance  
> you must learn to join the dance

Yoda takes her to Ryloth, first.

She wants to say, I thought we were going to be searching for the Sith spy, I thought we were going to be stopping them from doing harm.

She can hear the reply in her own voice and in Yoda’s; Patience, she would tell Ani if he’d said it. We learn nothing by focusing so hard on the task at hand that we don’t see the shape of the overall work.  
So she takes a breath and focuses on the overall shape – part of which is her education.

“Do or do not,” Yoda says. “There is no _try_.”

“Of course there’s a _try_ ,” Shmi says. “I try something, and I do my best; and if my best is good enough, I succeed. But if my best is not good enough, it isn’t because I have decided to _do not_.”

“And yet certain, a Jedi must be, in their convictions, in their abilities,” Yoda says.

“I will be certain,” Shmi says. “I will know my own capabilities – and I will know my own limits. And I will keep pushing those limits, and it won’t always work. But I will try, at the very least.”

Yoda is silent for a moment, then chuckles to himself. “Different discussions, we are having,” he says. “Saying, I am, that present itself, the option of failure must not, or an option it becomes in truth.”

“And I’m saying that we, as sentients, cannot always be certain of outcomes,” Shmi says. “If I’m a diplomatic Jedi and my negotiations fail, it’s not always because I did nothing. Sometimes, trying is the only option you have.” She cocks her head to the side. “I suppose that while you’re saying that you can’t present failure as an option, I’m saying that sometimes you have to try to present _success_ as an option.”

“Hmmm.” Yoda nods slowly. “And… in truth, teaches, failure does. Learn from failure we may.” He glances over to the side. “What think you, younglings?”

The small horde of twi’lek children are wide-eyed at their debate. The blue girl who’s been translating for the ones who don’t speak Basic sighs dramatically. “’M not _young_ ,” she insists.

“Young, you are, when compared to _me_ ,” Yoda says mischeviously. “Approaching nine hundred years, I am.”

The children all gasp. (Well, the ones who speak Basic do. The ones who only know Ryl have to wait for their friends to translate.)

“But back to our lesson, we must turn,” Yoda says, and looks back at her, a mischevious glint in his eye. “Valid, your point is; yet lift this brick, you still must.”

Shmi isn’t nine years old, so she doesn’t make a face. But… fluids moving through the air makes _sense_. Solids don’t float. They fall.

But Shmi had _just_ said that success had to be an option; so she is going to try to lift a brick.

“Like to say, mathematicians do, that with a lever and a place to stand, move planets, we may,” Yoda says. “The lever, your mind is; your willpower, your place to stand.”

 _Do or do not_ , Shmi thinks, and can start to understand what it’s trying to say. It’s not about effort, or strength, or concentration.

It’s just about… _moving_.

“Good,” Yoda says, and Shmi opens her eyes. She’s picked up the brick; it hovers about half a foot above the ground.

The younglings are silent with awe.

Shmi thinks that this would be the place where the brick would fall, in a story or a tale; but she is calm and steady. She doesn’t need to move from this spot; she has her lever and her place to stand, and they are both rock-solid.

“Very good,” Yoda says. “Now, something bigger.”

And _there’s_ where Shmi’s concentration is broken. She thinks, can I lift something that _big_ –

The brick falls.

 _I see what you mean about doubts_ , Shmi says silently to her teacher.

 _Sayings, we have, for a reason_ , Yoda says. _Though a good lesson it is, that universal they are not_.

Shmi looks out at the twi’leki village. I _can_ lift something bigger, she thinks to herself. But… not one of the bigger pieces of rubble. I’ll work my way up.

Then Yoda tenses. She feels it in the force, imperceptibly small.

A second later, she feels the incoming earthquake herself.

“Children,” she says, standing and projecting calm. “There’s another quake coming.”

The saddest thing, really, is that the children are used to this. The older ones pick up the younger ones; with only a few shrieks and whimpers, they move to the shelter on the edge of the village, as far away from both the cliffs and the trees as possible.

The adults of the village come as the quake hits, some at a run, worried for their children, others more sedate, used to the ground shaking beneath them.

“This is the fifth one this week,” Silaisko’mad, one of the village’s hunters, grumbles. “When will they _stop_?”

Sek’uhan, the girl in training to be the village’s next leader, glares at him. “They’ll stop when they stop,” she snaps. “Will you go moaning about the sun, next?”

“The sun doesn’t flatten _houses_ ,” he says.

Yoda looks over at Shmi. _Trouble, this is_ , he says.

 _The dissent, or the earthquakes?_ Shmi asks.

 _Both, impudent padawan of mine_ , he says.

Shmi watches Seku argue with Silais. _We can do something about one of those problems_ , she says.

 _Indeed_ , Yoda replies, as the shaking finally rumbles to a stop. _A trial for Sek’uhan, this conflict is. The source of these earthquakes, we will find._

One of the younglings tugs at her leg – Xi’aanamersu, Shmi remembers.

“Quake’s over,” the girl says, the thumb in her mouth muffling her words a bit. “C’n we go play with rocks some more?”

Shmi rests her hand on Xiaan’s head. “Maybe later, little one,” she says. “Master Yoda and I have Jedi work to do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ryloth is like Tatooine, and yet so unlike it; the heat, the dryness, the taste of the desert in the air, these are all the same. But Ryloth less sand and more dry earth, and green plants make their way up out of the dirt.

And, of course, its weather is far more variable than ‘sandstorm’ or ‘no sandstorm.’ Ryloth gets earthquakes, and tornadoes, and thunderstorms, and maybe more types of natural disaster that Shmi doesn’t even know exist yet.

“The cause of the earthquakes, do you know?” Yoda asks her as they walk a winding path through the hills, Yoda leading her… somewhere.

Shmi thinks. “There could be… some sort of mining operation, digging too deep,” she says slowly. “Or… something else destabilizing the rock, I suppose.”

Yoda nods slowly. “And if neither of those, it is?”

Shmi stares off into the trees. What can cause an earthquake?

“Said, you did,” Yoda says. “That often true, the most simple explanation is.”

What can cause an _earthquake_ … “A volcano,” Shmi says.

Yoda nods cheerfully. “The most likely explanation, that is,” he says. “Know this, the villagers do.”

“What can we do about the volcano?” Shmi asks.

“Nothing,” Yoda tells her.

 _If we can do nothing about the volcano, then why are we here,_ Shmi thinks. She realizes a moment later that she’s said it in her mind for Yoda to hear, not just herself.

“Do _nothing_ , can we?” Yoda asks. “Said that, did I?”

“We can’t do anything about the volcano, but we can help the villagers,” Shmi says, understanding what Yoda is pushing her towards.

“Debate, there is, among the villagers,” he says. “Dangerous, a volcano is; yet also dangerous, is moving the village to a safer place. Doubt that a volcano exists, some do.”

“We bring back evidence of the volcano,” Shmi says. “Somehow. Then we help them move the village.”

“Good lifting practice, it will be,” Yoda says.

Shmi is old enough to keep her sigh to herself.

They climb a hill – no, a mountain, twisting and turning. There’s no path here, but Yoda is light and agile and Shmi is determined to keep up. She watches Yoda jump up on rocks and crags, sees him jumping further with the aid of the force.

I can do that, Shmi thinks, and jumps.

(It takes her a few tries; it’s not like lifting something up, exactly. It’s like adding a push, putting mental springs on her feet, launching herself further. But as they climb the mountain, Shmi learns how to force-jump; and Yoda looks at her with pride in his eyes.)

It’s hotter than it should be, high up on the mountain’s side; that’s the first clue that something is wrong. Or maybe that something is right, given that they’re actively looking for the volcano. At first, Shmi almost thinks that she’s just exhausted from the climb – but though she is tired, this heat is coming from the ground.

“Here, we are,” Yoda says, and leads her to the rim.

A sea of fire boils below them, melting and bubbling. It’s as hot or maybe even hotter than the suns at noon; these are the kinds of temperatures that can melt rock.

They sit at the volcano’s rim. Yoda pulls out two fruits and tosses one to her.

Shmi eats it thankfully; she’s still too used to missing meals, but she’s trying to make up the lack.

“A force of nature, the volcano is,” Yoda says. “If erupts, it does, stop it, we cannot. Divert the flow of lava, we can. Help people evacuate, we can. But stop the eruption? Fight the forces of the center of a planet? We cannot. That way lies destruction.”

“Like a sandstorm,” Shmi says quietly.

“Yes,” Yoda says. “Know much of volcanoes, do you?”

Shmi shakes her head.

“Ash, they spew into the atmosphere,” he says. “Flows of lava, down the mountain run. Burn away vegetation, rock, everything, they do.”

“But you wouldn’t be saying this unless there was more,” Shmi says.

Yoda chuckles. “True, that is.” He looks out away from the lava; Shmi follows his gaze and sees Ryloth – the stony desert and the dry forest, a smudge that might be the village they’re staying at. “Nutrients, the ash has,” he says. “Replenish the earth, fill the soil, it will. Die, many things will; grow, many things will.”

“So not only can we not stop the volcano, we _shouldn’t_ stop the volcano,” Shmi says.

“Always consequences for our actions, there are,” Yoda says. “Balance the weight of destruction we may prevent, and lives we may save, against the weight of new growth and learning, we must. And, too, balance it against resources, we must. If save a village on Ryloth, we do, be there for a town on Bothawui, we cannot be; and yet, decide we must.”

Shmi looks out across the landscape, and thinks that this discussion isn’t about volcanoes.

“Go warn the village, we must,” Yoda says. “But our only goal, that is not.” There’s a glint in his eye. “Easier, manipulating fluids is for you, hmm?”

 

* * *

 

 

When Shmi walks into the village later, carefully balancing a roiling twist of lava in the air between her hands, Yoda just looks smug.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the temple, Shmi learns.

The next week, she and Yoda are back in the Temple, Yoda catching up on his council work and Shmi learning the basics of what life is like when you don’t grow up as a slave on an outer rim desert planet.

Part of this is learning how to read Aurebesh.

“I know how to _read_ ,” Shmi says, her face calm but her tone severe, staring down at the knight. “Can _you_ read Huttese?”

The knight shakes their head. “U-u-um, I–”

“Well, then, given that you’re clearly illiterate, why don’t you go find someone willing to explain things in a reasonable way?” Shmi says.

“A-a-all right, padawan Skywalker,” the knight says, and practically runs away.

Shmi sighs.

“Wow, that looks like it’s not the first time that’s happened,” a voice says behind her.

Shmi turns with a smile. “Siri. It’s good to see you.”

Siri grins at her. “You, too. Hey, I could probably give you some tutoring if you wanted – I may not be the best tutor, but I probably am one of the most entertaining ones.”

“You’d be willing to?” Shmi asks.

“Of course,” Siri says. “Well, actually… maybe a bit of a trade? I’m still on crèche duty – actually I’m on crèche duty _again_ , it’s a bit of a long story – anyways, I’m still horrible with younglings.”

“I’d be glad to help,” Shmi says. This is an area that she understands – not strange spiraling characters on a paper. Just children.

“Fantastic,” Siri says. “I’m working with younger younglings this time – most of them are about three, I think, developmentally.”

“Ah,” Shmi says. “That’s always an… interesting age.”

“Even more sticky than nine-year-olds in the refectory,” Siri says regretfully.

“Why does your master always put you on crèche work?” Shmi asks.

Siri sighs. “Mostly it’s… I’m impatient. I need to learn how to slow down, take my time, concentrate on the things that don’t seem important but probably are. _And_ she thinks that I should learn how to work with kids better.” Siri makes a face. “And the worst part is that she’s _right_.”

“That I most _certainly_ am, padawan.”

Siri jumps and sits up straight. “Master Adi! I… didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly not,” Adi Gallia says, sitting down beside Shmi and Siri. “Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t have a holorecorder on me. My own padawan, admitting that I’m sometimes right? It’s a miracle.” She turns to Shmi, a smile on her face. “A pleasure to finally meet you in a less formal setting. I’m Jedi Master Adi Gallia.”

“Shmi Skywalker,” Shmi says, “Though you already knew that.”

Adi grins. “I wanted to thank you, for bringing up that argument about attachment – I’ve been arguing it ever since I got on the council, but you were wonderfully concise.”

“I… didn’t think that anyone in the temple would be supporting attachment, or emotions,” Shmi says slowly.

“There are a surprising number of us,” Adi says. “I’m just unusual for being on the council. My whole family’s strong in the force, though – a good half of us come to the Order. So I’m one of those unusual ones who grew up with a family.”

“Master Adi just kept quiet about attachment and stuff until she was actually _on_ the council,” Siri explains. Then her chrono beeps, and she sighs. “I suppose that’s a _no_ on Shmi helping me in the crèche, then?”

“Unfortunately so, padawan,” Adi says. “Scamper along. Try not to let the children not even a quarter of your age win in an argument again.”

Shmi hides a small smile. “Just remember,” she says. “They’re not rocks, or animals. They’re little people. Try talking to them.”

“That’s what I did _last_ time,” Siri says, walking off. “That landed me in the _infirmary_.”

“Good luck!” Adi calls.

Siri mutters something, but she’s too far away for Shmi to hear her.

“So, what were you trading for?” Adi asks.

Shmi blinks. “I’m sorry, Master Gallia–”

“Adi,” she says. “We’re close enough in age that it’s weird. And I mean, what were you asking her to do in return for the crèche-helping?”

“Oh.” Shmi looks to the side. “It’s not a problem, really. I like children–”

“Siri does need to learn to do this herself,” Adi says, sounding if anything _apologetic_. “And so if there’s something you need help with…?” she trails off, leaving it as a question.

Shmi hesitates. “It’s not getting Siri in any trouble?” she asks.

Shmi can feel Adi’s surprise, like that wasn’t a possibility she’d even thought of – then feels it smooth over into understanding, tinged with a slight self-reprimand (that was an emotion she felt _far_ too often coming from other Jedi). “Not at all,” she says. “And even if it was, we’re talking about trouble like more crèche duty, or having to meditate about the merits of doing a job yourself.”

“Oh.” Shmi lets out a little breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

“It’s almost traditional for initiates and padawans to get into minor bits of trouble,” Adi says. “Though it usually tapers off as they get older. Actually…” she gets a tiny grin on her face, one that looks remarkably like the grin of Yoda’s that heralds either the best or the worst kind of mischief.

“Actually what?” Shmi asks, wary.

“So, you probably want some help adjusting to life in the Temple – and life as a free woman, on top of that,” Adi says, and Shmi nods. “So what I want you to do is to –sometime – go talk to Siri’s and Obi-Wan’s group of friends. Maybe bring along Vos, he’s fun and could probably use the relaxation. And tell them what I just told you – about the minor bits of trouble, and you adjusting. All right?”

“All right,” Shmi says after a few moments. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Punishment work like extra meditation, doing chores, cleaning up whatever mess is made,” Adi says. “Things like that.”

Shmi nods slowly. “That seems… reasonable?”

Adi nods. “Ideally,” she says, “You’ll have a bit of fun, learn a bit of sneaking, maybe how to pick locks or something, and learn that _consequences_ doesn’t always mean something like starving, or a beating.” She shakes her head. “And maybe it’ll even get Obi-Wan out of his… mood.”

Less _mood_ , more… Shmi can’t actually find a better word to describe the way Obi-Wan’s bee walking around the Temple like a ghost. “That seems reasonable, then.” She takes a deep breath, stilling her mind, reminding herself that talking about starvings and beatings doesn’t mean they’ll happen. “I’ve been having a hard time with the Aurebesh alphabet…”

Adi nods. “So that’s what you were trading Siri for,” she says, then grins, the previous conversation topic brushed away. “I’m not the best tutor in the temple, but I’ll give it a shot. So the first thing you have to remember,” she says, pulling her chair closer and leaning towards the terminal, “Is that the spelling isn’t based on phonology – the way it sounds – it’s based on _morphology_ , the meaning and the shape of the word…”

 

* * *

 

There are other things that Shmi needs to learn, too. And with some of those, there’s only so much staring she can stand.

Honestly. She thought Jedi were supposed to be _subtle_.

Nobody is in the training salle the hour before midnight, except for Shmi.

She switches her lightsaber on, the green glow illuminating the room. It feels like fire in her hands, or capture lightning – almost like she’s holding a tiny sun, all to herself. It feels like freedom, like power, like safety. She never expected to feel _safe_ , with a weapon in her hands.

Some things are easier to learn, as an adult. How to know herself, how to calm herself, how to use the energy in the world around her to move things… she’s seen how long it takes younglings to purposefully levitate feathers, and Shmi has learned in three weeks what they’ve struggled with for years. But other things…

For all that the lightsaber feels like safety in her hands, it doesn’t move like anything else. Doesn’t swing like a staff or a stick, is far too light to require as much force as it does. She overbalances, underbalances, doesn’t put enough strength behind her swings.

But Shmi has made a promise to herself – she is going to learn how to use this weapon, for herself, for all the people she can help, for all the slaves that she can help to freedom.

Nothing says she can’t work through the basics in privacy.

There are soft, slow footsteps outside, and she pauses – this area is usually empty, but if somebody sees the glow of her lightsaber and decides to investigate… it’s not going to be a disaster, but it’s going to be awkward, at the very least.

But the footsteps slow, pause, then move on, leaving Shmi alone.

All right, she thinks, and starts practicing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shmi and Anakin have a talk; then Shmi and Yoda go offworld again.

She goes to see Ani again the day after that.

When she enters the crèche, he’s busy explaining to two of his new friends – a quarren girl that Ani has told her about named Narel and the human boy she met in the refectory, who she thinks is Gilis – how to reassemble a broken datapad. There are parts on the floor; Shmi would feel bad for whichever padawan is assigned to watch Ani’s clan, except for the fact that the padawan in question is listening in, looking almost as interested as the initiates.

“Padawan Skywalker!” The other padawan frantically scrambles off the floor, brushing off their robes.

Shmi opens her mouth to say that there’s no need to get up for her, but a nine-year-old suddenly collides with her.

“Mom!!” Ani says. “Did you _see_ the _datapads_ they have here they’re so _shiny_ –”

“I did, yes,” Shmi says, prying him off her leg and sitting down, so that she can look at the piece of cutting-edge technology that her son has thoroughly deconstructed. “Did you remember to disconnect the data chips one at a time so that–”

“So that data isn’t lost, I _know_ , Mom,” Ani says. “Of _course_.”

“Just making sure,” she says, and ruffles his hair. “Could I talk to you alone for a bit, Ani?”

“Sure,” he says, after glancing at the padawan watching his clan; they nod. “I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”

“Okay!” Narel says. “Come back soon, though, I wanna see how this works.”

Ani leads her into his empty dormitory.

The slaves for the hutts, and for some of the richer masters, they slept in dormitories, dark and too hot and with beds as hard as rocks.

But when Shmi sits down on the bed that Ani says is his, it’s soft, and the covers are a dark green. All the other children – younglings – have posters up; some of them have dolls, or extra pieces of embroidery on their blankets. Somehow, the entire room feels… peaceful. Restful.

Ani has three small holos on his bedside table; one of them is a spaceship. One is a swirling mass of stars – Shmi thinks she can pick out Alderaan.

The last holo cycles through a few different images – a few different people. As she watches, it shifts from Qui-Gon to her to Padmé to Obi-Wan.

“It’s of the people who got me here,” Ani says quietly. “’Cause… everything changes so fast. I don’t want to forget.”

“You won’t,” Shmi says, and draws him into her arms. “You know that I’m not always going to be here – we both know that the life of a Jedi is dangerous. We saw that with Qui-Gon. But you can hold people deep in your heart, no matter what the other Jedi say. Hold them there, hold them tight, and don’t let go. You won’t forget.”

“But they keep saying it’s a bad thing,” Ani says. “What if it _is?_ ”

“It’s not,” Shmi says, and she is going to have _words_ with whoever is teaching her son this. “What they’re _trying_ to say is that you can’t let it control you.”

Ani thinks for a moment. “I don’t get it,” he says.

“If you saw me in danger,” Shmi says, “Would you come running after me, to try and save me?”

“Of course!” Ani says.

“Even if I could handle it myself?” Shmi asks. “Even if somebody else were in danger, too? Even if it were Padmé in danger?”

“I’d save _everyone_ ,” Ani declares, then frowns, biting his lip. “But… if you could take care of yourself…” he shakes his head. “But what if I thought you could and you _couldn’t_ and I didn’t do anything about it ‘cause I thought you were fine and then you _die_ and I’m all alone?”

“That’s what you’re here to learn,” Shmi says. “That’s what they’re trying to teach you here, Ani. How to know when to act, and when to not act, and what you can do to help.”

“They’re teaching it _badly_ ,” Ani says.

“They are, aren’t they,” she agrees, startling a little laugh out of him. “I bet they’re saying a lot of strange stuff about not feeling things, too?” She phrases it like a statement, but both of them know it’s a question.

“Yeah,” Ani says. “They want us to let it all go into the force. Like they want us to be droids or something.” He makes a face. “It’s probably the control thing, I guess? Like you were talking about. But they don’t just _say_ that.”

Shmi nods, and adds another point to her list of things to talk to the crèche masters about. “Do they let you ask questions when you’re confused about something?”

Ani shrugs. “They _let_ us, but the answer’s always something like _the will of the force_ or _a Jedi must have patience_.”

“Well, that’s silly of them,” Shmi says. “If they can’t answer even the simplest questions, why are they teaching?”

Ani giggles again, then sobers. “Can I… can I maybe sometimes come visit you? You _always_ have answers.”

“Of course,” Shmi says. “Though I don’t _always_ have answers. I bet Master Yoda has lots of answers, too.” And that reminds her of the other thing she was going to tell Ani.

She lets go of him, turning so that they’re directly face-to-face; Ani stares up at her attentively, knowing that this is serious.

“You don’t have to call anyone master,” she says, and she can see his eyes grow wide. “I know that they insist on being _Master Yoda_ and _Master Qui-Gon_. That’s their problem. If you don’t want to call them _master_ , Ani, don’t.”

He nods slowly, still staring at her.

“You can if you want to,” she says. “If the other initiates call them master and you don’t want to stand out. Or if you honestly don’t mind. But if anyone gives you trouble for not calling them a master, come talk to me, and I will set them straight. Is that all right?”

“Yeah,” Ani says. “I – yeah. But – you call him _Master Yoda_ , don’t you?”

Shmi nods. “What I do,” she says, “Is I call him _Master Yoda_ in public, out loud. When it’s just the two of us, or when I’m thinking in my head, I just call him Yoda.”

“You can _do_ that?” Ani asks. “Think something different in your head than what you’re saying?”

Shmi nods. “It takes some practice,” she says. “It takes patience. To learn how to do _anything_ , Ani, you have to be willing to really learn.”

If they were still on Tatooine, she would be having a very different talk with her son right now. She would be telling him what every slave mother eventually tells her children – this is how to lie, this is how to hide. This is how to avoid a beating; this is how to avoid getting sold. If you’re ever out in the open desert, this is how to survive.

She’ll still teach him some of those things, if he’s willing to learn; Shmi’s willing to bet that some of those skills will still be useful here in the Jedi Temple.

This is how to lie to somebody who can read a lie. This is how to find joy in little things.

But those lessons aren’t urgent. Ani isn’t going to die, or get sold off, before she can teach him.

He can learn how to be a child, first.

She hugs him one more time, then says, “Why don’t you finish showing your friends how to reassemble that datapad? I’m sure you have a lot to teach them.”

 

* * *

 

 

Yoda takes her to Corellia two days later – two more days of practicing with her lightsaber in the empty training salle; two more days of listening to the same footsteps walk past every night.

Not just two more days of practicing her Aurebesh, though.

“I was telling you about my family, right?” Adi says. “They’re from Corellia; a big part of the clan still lives there.” She grins. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt your education, would we? And Siri could probably use a break from the crèche.”

“Boring, our time may be,” Yoda warns her. “There to study other cultures and ways of life, we will be.”

Shmi, very politely, does not laugh. They’re going to _Corellia_. She’s heard _stories_ about Corellia, and looking at Adi makes her think they might be true.

When she tells Ani where they’re going, all he says is “ _Cool_. Can you get some holovids of the swoop racing?”

“Maybe,” Shmi says, where _maybe_ means _probably not_.

Corellia is loud, like Coruscant, for all that its population is much lower.

“Hmmm,” Yoda says when they reach the hotel they’re staying in, in neither the best nor the worst part of the city. “Time, it is, for you to learn more about shielding.”

 _Good_ , Shmi thinks, and she can tell that Yoda hears that thought.

He doesn’t use words to describe his shielding, not the way Obi-Wan had used words to describe meditation or Qui-Gon had pointedly not used words to describe his plans.

Yoda invites her into his mind, shows her a path into his head, where she can see his shields from the inside out.

He visualizes them as trees; big, leafy ones with vines strewn in between, like the kind she’s heard about on swampy planets or jungles. She sees how he has the leaves to filter the light, keeping some out and letting glimmers in, how the vines tie it all together, and how the trunks of the trees provide a base of strength. At the base, below the shields, she catches glimpses of water – a swamp planet, then – and understands that it’s smooth and calm, yet flowing; still, yet connected.

She slowly traces her steps out of his mind, on the path he’s built between them, then reaches back and beckons him towards her mind; shows him the desert, and the solid rock that are her shields.

She thinks for a moment, then with Yoda watching on she builds her rock walls into canyons, steeply tracing paths, high and deep. The wind and the sand alike can blow through them, but they still protect, they still shield, mazelike and sharp.

(There’s a part of her that thinks – a shield is something that other people can attack. She thinks of the burning suns, the endless sands, the desert that the slaves thought of as life, as freedom, and the masters called _certain death_. Anybody who tries to get into her mind without her inviting them there, she decides, deserves what’s coming for them.)

Yoda draws out of her mind and she opens her eyes, still getting used to the wind whistling through the canyon walls – she can _feel_ again, without being crushed, and it is such a relief.

Siri pokes her head inside their room. “Hey, Shmi,” she says. “Want to go test out those shiny new shields of yours under more interesting conditions?”

“Padawan,” Adi says from behind her. “How about _I_ take Shmi out to experiment with her shields, and you stay here and work on _your_ shields with Master Yoda?”

Siri mutters something about never getting to do anything fun and sits cross-legged on the bed as Shmi stands.

“Careful, remember to be,” Yoda warns them. “A safe city, this is not, for travellers.”

“I will be, Master Yoda,” Adi says. “Just some basic testing, I promise. I won’t break your shiny new padawan.”

“Impudence!” Yoda says, but they all can feel his amusement. “Take care, not to break _your_ padawan, I will, Master Gallia.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Shmi says, smiling. “The worst that can happen is my shields breaking, and a headache is awful but manageable.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Adi warns her as they walk out the door. “This planet has a reputation for a reason, you know.” Then she grins. “Your shields could use some stress-testing – you know, use in less-than-ideal conditions. How do you feel about whiskey?”

 

 

“I want to let you know,” Shmi says, “That I blame you for this.”

“You were the one who jinxed it!” Adi whispers sharply.

That’s probably fair, Shmi thinks, but doesn’t say anything because the smugglers in the room below the vent they’re hiding in have just started talking.

“You know how to deflect blaster bolts yet?” Adi asks quietly.

“No,” Shmi says.

“Okay, then,” she says. “Just… draw your saber and look intimidating.”

Then she kicks open the vent, dropping down into the roomful of smugglers, blue saber blazing, yelling something about the smugglers being under arrest.

Shmi doesn’t know if they, as Jedi, even _can_ arrest people. She just sighs, draws her saber, and follows.

 

 

“You know what I said, before, about blaming you?” Shmi asks as they race down the twisting streets of a place that is definitely a bad part of town. “That still holds true.”

“Save your breath for running!” Adi yells. There are angry shouts behind them; blasts of energy go humming past.

Shmi spots the unattended swoop at the same moment Adi does, and groans internally. For all that she and Ani both like fixing things, Ani is the only one who likes flying.

“Into the swoop!” Adi says, and they sprint the last few steps into the swoop.

“What’s the likelihood that they’ll find swoops, too?” Shmi asks.

“You remember what I said before, about not jinxing us?” Adi asks. “That still applies!”

“I’ll apologize when we’re _safe_ ,” Shmi says.

 

 

“They have swoops.”

“I’m _sorry_ –”

“Can you pilot?”

“Can I _what_?”

“Here, take the wheel–”

 

 

Shmi brings back a holo that was taken of her piloting the swoop, Adi balancing on the back of the bike deflecting blaster bolts, and puts it by her bedside.

“I miss _all_ the fun,” Siri says.

“Rude, it is,” Yoda adds, “To fight all the smugglers oneself. Leave some for us, the next time, hmmm?”

Clearly, being raised in the Temple makes Jedi _completely insane_.

“I wanna go to Corellia,” Ani says, awe in his voice.

Or maybe it’s just that Shmi is the only reasonable person in the entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slower, this is definitely slower, I don't know what any of you are talking about. I'm working with a tentative monday-wednesday-friday update schedule; let's see how long I can keep this up. What's the worst that could happen, right? :P


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions and planning.

“So I heard you went chasing smugglers,” Bant says at breakfast.

Siri groans; Obi-Wan looks up, for once interested in the world.

“What’s wrong?” He asks Siri. “Smugglers too tough for you?”

“I didn’t get to chase any smugglers,” Siri grumbles. “That was all Master Adi and Shmi.”

“I would really have preferred to not chase smugglers,” Shmi points out. “It’s not like I took them from you on _purpose_.”

“They went out drinking,” Siri tells Bant and Obi-Wan. “To see if Shmi could still hold her shields while drunk.”

“Mildly drunk,” Shmi feels the need to point out. “And, as it turned out, they held up fine.”

“So I heard that _somebody_ went to Corellia and ended up chasing smugglers,” says a new voice from behind them.

“ _Dammit_ , Vos,” Siri says.

Shmi turns around; there’s a tall Kiffar knight standing behind her, his hair pulled back into a tail, a long yellow stripe across the bridge of his nose.

“I figured it was time to introduce myself,” the Kiffar says, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Knight Quinlan Vos.”

“Padawan Shmi Skywalker,” Shmi says. “Master Gallia mentioned you, I think.”

Quinlan blinks. “Did she? What did she say?”

“Something about… adjusting to temple life, and learning how to handle minor bits of trouble?” Shmi says.

There’s a moment of silence around the table.

“Siri, your master is insane,” Bant says finally.

Quinlan has a giant grin growing on his face, and Siri looks much the same.

“Say, Shmi,” Quinlan says. “What are you doing, oh, tomorrow early in the morning?”

“Nothing other than sleeping,” Shmi says warily. “Why?”

“Excellent,” Siri says. “Meet me, Quinlan, Bant, and Obi-Wan in…” she glances at Quinlan.

“Room of a Thousand Fountains?” He asks.

Siri nods. “Room of a Thousand Fountains at three forty-five tomorrow morning.”

“I never agreed to this,” Obi-Wan says. “Leave me out of this, Tachi.”

“No way in hells,” Siri says cheerfuly. “You’re stuck with us, Kenobi.”

“There, there,” Bant says, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll be there, too.”

“That’s not _comforting_ ,” Obi-Wan says, before they’re swarmed by younglings.

“Mom!” Ani says excitedly. “Watch this!” Then he levitates his bowl of cereal.

Then the bowl drops.

But it doesn’t fall all the way.

“Careful,” Obi-Wan says, his hand outstretched. “You don’t want to get cereal everywhere, do you?”

“Oops,” Ani says. “Sorry.”

“Just… be more careful,” Obi-Wan says.

“I will,” Ani says, then grins. “Hey, Obi-Wan, do you want to come see the speeder we’re designing?”

“ _Ani_ ,” Shmi says.

“We’re not gonna actually _build_ it,” Ani says. “Probably. Do you want to come see it?” he asks Obi-Wan.

“… All right,” Obi-Wan says after a few moments.

“Wizard!” Ani cheers. “C’mon, I’ll show you!” He grabs Obi-Wan and starts pulling him away.

“Eat your breakfast first,” Obi-Wan says, sounding more amused than anything else, and allows himself to be pulled away.

There’s a few moments of silence, following that.

“Well that’s the most alive I’ve seen Obi-Wan acting since you got back from Naboo,” Bant says. “How old is Ani, again?”

“Nine,” Shmi says, bemused.

“Hmm,” Bant says, then glances at Quinlan. “Ten credits says they’re master and padawan before Ani turns eleven.”

“No bet,” Quinlan says. “It’s gonna be before he turns _ten_.”

Shmi smiles. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who sees it, then,” she says. “Obi-Wan seems like he could use some more light in his life.”

Bant and Siri exchange a glance, and Quinlan sighs.

“We’re not supposed to let sadness weigh us down,” he explains to Shmi. “Obi-Wan… is.”

Shmi blinks. “… Yes,” she says carefully. “So having more things to make him happy is good.”

“That’s still letting your emotions get away from you,” Quinlan says.

Shmi raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the whole point of whatever we’ll be doing in the Room of a Thousand Fountains early in the morning?”

“What,” Quinlan says. “No. Absolutely not. That’s different.”

Of course it is, Shmi thinks, and sighs. _Jedi._

 

 

“I’ve been thinking about emotion,” Shmi says.

It’s been too long since she last did this – a few days, when she tries to make it every other day.

“Adi emotes,” she continues. “Yoda emotes. But whenever a padawan gets upset, everyone insists that being emotionless is the way to handle it. It just doesn’t make _sense_. You allow positive emotions, or at least you don’t actively discourage them most of the time. But you pretend that you do. And some people…” She thinks of Obi-Wan, dark circles under his eyes. “People _need_ positive emotions, and they think they can’t have them. And… and if anything, that’s what leads to your dark side. Isn’t it?”

She thinks about Quinlan Vos – a full knight for years, the same age as Obi-Wan. Under all that bravado, beneath the Jedi mask of calm… he’d felt tense.

“There’s so much hypocrisy,” she says. “People saying one thing and meaning another but thinking they mean a third thing.”

She sighs again, slowly, letting out breath, letting out tension. “This is _hard_. I can’t imagine how much harder it must be for children, for teenagers. They feel things so deeply. How can your teachings not allow for love?”

She runs her fingers along her padawan braid; it’s become something of a fidget in the weeks she’s had it.

“Wake up soon,” she tells Qui-Gon. It doesn’t look right, seeing him lying on the bed so still. She can barely feel the echoes of his mind; comas are like that, the healers have told her. “Your padawan needs you.”

There are footsteps outside, slow and steady – where has she heard those footsteps before?

The door opens and Dooku enters, pausing when he sees her.

“Padawan Skywalker,” he says, carefully neutral as ever.

“Master Dooku,” she replies in kind, standing and moving away from Qui-Gon’s bedside, leaving room for Dooku to sit down, as he moves out of the doorway, leaving room for her to leave.

They’ve gone through this dance multiple times, and it never gets less awkward.

The halls of the Jedi Temple are louder this time of day, in the mid-afternoon; not loud like the markets on Tatooine had been, or loud like the streets of Corellia, but they seem more lively somehow, more awake.

Yoda is waiting in their rooms, a pot of tea warm and ready. This is his new favorite way of helping her practice lifting things carefully with her mind.

It’s hard, getting the teapot to lift up and not crack; if she exerts too little it falls and breaks, but if she exerts too much she might crush it. Then she has to tilt it, just the right amount to get the tea to pour out – she _can_ just move the tea itself, but that’s not the point of this exercise.

It’s almost like a meditation, focusing this much on pouring the tea. She’s heard of planets where the pouring of the tea is itself an art-form; and this does feel like part of an art, some long winding poem or a perfectly synchronized dance. And more and more, lately, it’s felt like she’s not just a spectator; it feels like she’s the reader of the poem, or a dancer on a stage. More and more, it’s felt like she almost knows what’s about to come next, though she can never quite grasp it.

“Time, it is,” Yoda says, once the tea has been poured. “Discuss we must, the matter of this spy.”

The teapot is set carefully down on the table. “Who knew that we were going to Naboo?” Shmi asks.

“Knew, the council did,” Yoda says. “But many other Jedi as well. Made no secret of our going, we did.”

“But we didn’t announce it, either,” Shmi says. “So who was _likely_ to know?”

But Yoda pauses. “Announce it we did not,” he says slowly. “Save to the Vice Chancellor, and the senators who attended him.”

“Someone in the senate,” Shmi says. “We shouldn’t rule out a Jedi being our spy, but…”

Yoda nods slowly. “Like the idea, I do _not_ , that working with the Sith, a Jedi is. Rule it out, we cannot. But much more likely, a spy in the senate is.”

“Which senators were with the Vice Chancellor when we told him?” Shmi asks, then pauses. “I…”

“The Vice Chancellor, Mas Amedda is,” Yoda says. “Preside when the Chancellor cannot, and during elections, he does.”

Shmi nods. “And he’s still the Vice Chancellor now that Senator Paplatine is the Chancellor?” she asks.

“He is,” Yoda says. “Hmmm. Present as nominees, Senator Antilles of Alderaan and Senator Teem of Malastare were, along with Senator Palpatine. But another route of investigation, we might puruse.”

Shmi waits for Yoda to explain; for all that they critique Qui-Gon’s – _critiqued_ Qui-gon’s sense of overdramatics, Yoda had his own love of meaningful pauses and not explaining things until he had to.

“Talk to Finis Valorum, we will,” Yoda says finally, after sipping his tea. “Discover what he has to say, we may; discover why resigned so suddenly, he did.”

“And see where those charges of corruption came from,” Shmi says quietly. “It was in the Sith’s favor to have the senate in chaos.”

“Think you that trace these charges, we can?” Yoda asks. “That lead to the spy, or the Sith, they will?”

Shmi shrugs. “It’s a common enough tactic between the hutts,” she says. “Though with things far worse than embezzlement. But I waited tables for Gardulla; I’ve heard more mercenaries get paid to frame someone than I can remember. I may not be able to trace it fully, but I bet someone can.”

“Begin, then, we will,” Yoda says, “With Valorum.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigations and meetings.

Quinlan’s brilliant plan, it turns out, is to dye all the water in the Room of a Thousand Fountains bright green.

“You know,” Bant says, as they watch the water across the entire room darken and get greener, “This was a lot more fun when we were fourteen.”

“Lots of things were a lot more fun when we were fourteen,” Siri says, and yawns. “Force, I feel old.”

Shmi, as the oldest one there, just raises an eyebrow.

Obi-Wan looks happier, though Shmi can’t imagine what about sneaking around at four in the morning and playing pranks has done to improve his mood.

“If you’re feeling old, think about how _I’m_ feeling,” Quinlan says. “I have a _padawan_ , for crying out loud.”

The entire group comes awake at once.

“ _What_?” Bant says. “Quin! Congratulations!”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Siri says. “Who is it?”

“Aayla Secura,” Quinlan says proudly. “She’s twelve, and she’s _brilliant_.”

Aayla Secura – Aaylase’cura, Shmi thinks. “Congratulations,” she says.

“I’ll introduce you all soon,” Quinlan says. “It’s still… pretty new.”

“Of course it is,” Obi-Wan says quietly, but he’s really smiling, which has been a rarity over the past month. The only other time Shmi’s seen him really smile has been… with Ani.

Offering Quinlan congratulations one more time, the group splits apart, everyone back to their own beds.

But Yoda is waiting for Shmi outside their quarters.

“Fun, did you have?” He asks.

Shmi freezes.

But Yoda is projecting – projecting calm, comfort, tinged by amusement. “A good color, green is,” he says. “But an early mission we have; live in a different zone of daytime, Finis Valorum does. Fortunate, it is, that already awake, you are.”

Shmi takes a deep breath, letting Yoda’s calm soften her fear. “I’ll get my things,” she says, and enters her room.

It’s such a relief to have _things_ , she thinks every time she sees her room. There are some holos on her bedside table – she has a _bedside table_ – there are some wall hangings that Yoda had given her, and some that she had found herself.

Her closet has more than two outfits in it; she’s been trying the robes the Jedi favor, and isn’t quite sure she likes them yet. There are a few dresses, a few pairs of shirts and pants, more like what she’s used to – some cut in a Tattooinian style, even, though all much higher quality than what she’d had as a slave. She has the dress she left with, though, the dress she ran away in, folded up carefully in a corner. She’s not going to forget where she came from.

She has the bag she left with – five carefully carved japoor snippets, a shard of sand-glass, the wood-and-string dolls she’d made for Ani, a few other knick-knacks. The small pouches full of seeds and roots that could relieve pain, or help against disease, or ease aching muscles, or any number of other things. And, of course, the sling, now as always tied around her wrist, and the small pouch of plasma stones she has remaining.

She dresses as she has been – Jedi robes, until she decides otherwise. Her belt, that she’d woven herself as her mother had taught her, and strung with beads carved from desert nuts. She hangs the japoor snippets from the belt, as she always does, to remind her of those that love her.

She hasn’t told the Jedi what exactly they mean just yet.

Yoda is waiting for her when she comes out of her room, holding a thermos and another cylindrical… thing. He hands them both to Shmi; the thermos holds tea, and the other thing turns out to be a food-wrap, leaves of some plant rolled up with some sort of legume and held together with a flatbread.

“A chance, this will be, for you to see how politicians act in private,” Yoda says as they walk to the hangar and Shmi eats her breakfast. “Differently from their actions in public, yes; but more truthful? Not necessarily.”

Shmi nods; everyone had different faces, from herself to Qui-Gon to Gardulla the Hutt. Politicians just made a bigger deal about theirs, from the way it was sounding.

“A proud man, Finis Valorum is,” Yoda says. “Yet kind, he is; more kind than many politicians, at least. Thinks of the people, he does, not just personal gain.”

“Is that how we discovered the corruption charges were false?” Shmi asks as they climb into the shuttle that will take them to Valorum’s apartments.

Yoda… looks troubled. “It is,” he says. “Yet in the public eye, Valorum is. If false, the charges are, more obviously faked, they should be; yet know Valorum, I do. False, the charges are. A conundrum, it is.”

Or the Sith are just very good at faking charges of corruption, Shmi thinks, keeping the thought to herself. That spawns another thought, though: If they’re so good at faking charges… how long have they been doing it?

They spend the rest of the shuttle ride in silence.

Finis Valorum lives in the penthouse of a skyscraper; the whole few hundred floors of the building above the lower levels belongs to the Valorum family. Nepotism, it seems, exists more places than just Tatooine.

Valorum himself is human, dressed in dark purple robes. He greets them not enthusiastically but warmly, and has them sit in far too plush chairs.

His – servant? aide? Shmi’s not sure what he’s supposed to be called, but he serves them chilled glasses of a sweet, sparkling drink.

Shmi sits straight and uncomfortable, unused to being waited upon; even if any place she’d been in before had been this… _expensive_ , she would have been the one serving, not being served.

But as soon as Valorum’s aide disappears, the smile drops off the ex-Chancellor’s face.

“What are you really here about, Master Yoda?” He asks.

Yoda taps his fingers against the chair’s arm. “The accusations of corruption,” he says. “Know, do you, where they originated?”

Valorum sighs. “If I _did_ , they wouldn’t be a problem anymore,” he says. “Everything was fine – and then there were whispers, and then the whispers became louder, and then suddenly there was too much money in my personal accounts.”

 _Something is off, here_ , Shmi thinks, making sure to include Yoda in the thought. He doesn’t visibly acknowledge her, but she knows that he’s heard.

Valorum feels… _afraid_.

“Prompted your retirement, this scandal did?” Yoda asks.

“Of course,” Valorum lies. “I’ve been ineffective – or worse – for almost half a year; Queen Amidala needing help just drove the point in, that I was doing nothing but stalling the political process.”

“Hmmm,” Yoda says. “Personal, you think this was? Or a larger political move?”

“Personal, most likely,” Valorum says. “With, as always, political ramifications. Any of my enemies could have wanted to see me ousted; I wasn’t going to give them the pleasure of a vote of no confidence.”

“Any suspicions, have you?” Yoda presses.

“Only half of the people in the entire senate,” Valorum says.

“Yes, but which ones were sending you threats?” Shmi asks politely.

There’s a few moments of shocked silence in the room.

“Specifically,” Shmi says, “Whichever threat that was dire enough to make you retire so suddenly.”

“… I’m sorry, have we been introduced,” Valorum says.

“Shmi Skywalker,” she says.

“My padawan, she is,” Yoda says. “Threatened, you were?”

Valorum flinches. “No,” he says, but he knows that they know he’s lying.

“Who, Finis?” Yoda asks softly.

He’s silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “They knew things they should not; they could get into my offices in the senate, into my private rooms. They didn’t even show up on the security cameras.”

 _If he tells us more, he’s going to be killed_ , Shmi tells Yoda silently, listening to what Valorum hasn’t said.

Yoda nods slowly, then thanks Valorum for telling them and claims the need to return to the temple in time for Shmi’s classes.

“We haven’t learned much,” Shmi says. “But… death threats, serious enough to make the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic resign. Skilled enough to leave no trace, in the building of the galactic senate.”

“Dealing with the Sith, we are,” Yoda says.

“Or a professional,” Shmi says.

She can feel that Yoda doesn’t like the idea that a mercenary could get into the senate so undetected.

“Regardless,” Yoda says. “Another source of information we have.”

Shmi thinks through what they have – who would want Valorum to resign?

“The trade federation, or one of the nominees for Chancellor?” she asks.

Yoda scowls at her. “Three other sources of information, we have,” he amends himself.

“Isn’t it four?” Shmi asks. “The federation, and the three nominees? The Alderaan senator, the Malastare senator, and…” she trails off.

They’re both silent for a moment.

“Gained the most, Chancellor Palpatine has,” Yoda says. “But also lost a great deal, on his home planet.”

“I can’t think of any reason for him to spy for the people who have helped blockade his planet,” Shmi says. “But he might have suspicions.”

“Very well,” Yoda says. “Four sources, we have.”

It’s more than they started the morning with, but not by much.

 

* * *

 

 

She spends the rest of the day in classes learning what other padawans already know, after they’ve returned to the Jedi Temple to find various masters shrieking about _disrespect_ and _disruption of the peace_ and it would be intimidating if it weren’t so _ridiculous_ , because nobody else seems to mind that the water in the Room of a Thousand Fountains is suddenly green.

“The force works in mysterious ways,” she hears Quinlan saying to a young rutian twi’lek girl – this must be Aayla.

“But master,” she says. “Why _green_?”

“Because…” Quinlan says. “Because reasons.”

Aayla seems to think on this for a moment, then shrugs. “Do blue next time,” she tells him.

But however chaotic it is during the day, the training salle is deserted at night. Deserted except for Shmi, of course, and whoever it is who walks past every night she’s training there.

Whoever it is is a Jedi, she knows that; nobody else has that controlled kind of presence, and nobody else would have any reason to be in the Temple at that time of night anyways. But they’re shielding very strongly, so that she can’t tell anything more than that.

She drops into the first position for the kata she’s been working on; now that she has the basic strikes down, the simple blocks and strikes and disarms well enough so that she won’t accidentally disarm herself, Yoda has started to teach her an actual form. (She’d thought that form I was an official form; and it is, but unfortunately, Jedi are overachievers, and snobby to boot.)

Yoda’s specialty is Ataru, a form focused around acrobatics, with high leaps and twists.

Honestly, Shmi considers it half a miracle that she hasn’t dismembered herself yet, training strength on her lightsaber or no.

She’s learned things like this on her own before; she taught herself how to fix speeders and shuttles late at night and at midday when everyone else rested in the heat of the suns, working through spare parts until she could get something up and running.

But lightsaber combat isn’t mechanics, for the most part. She works with Yoda every day, and still she lags behind. Her Aurebesh is improving, her knowledge of history and politics and the galaxy (and isn’t it interesting, that some of the basic information the Jedi know is wrong?). Every day she breathes a little easier, feels a little lighter, knowing that she’s learning more – advanced mathematics and astronavigation and survival skills on unfamiliar planets.

Everything except lightsaber combat.

“Maybe I just wasn’t built for fighting,” she says out loud.

It’s only when she feels a flash of surprise echoing outside the salle’s windows that she realizes her watcher is here.

Of course, she’d realized after a few nights of practice, all the salles had one-way windows, so that masters could watch their students without the students feeling self-conscious.

Jedi are ridiculous.

Well, her watcher is here, whether she likes it or not; she may as well keep practicing, she decides.

She works through the first kata, swinging her lightsaber slowly and carefully, trying to take her time, trying to get it _right_.

She knows she’s not getting it right.

She just doesn’t have the kind of balance that Ataru requires, the kind of control over her body and her lightsaber that the spins and deflections expect. There’s a small seed of dread in her stomach about what will happen when they get to the arials.

She tries to let her frustration flow out of her, smooth down into calm – but here, she’s alone, or almost alone; there’s nobody to see her get upset, save for her watcher.

She still doesn’t want to get upset.

Shmi shuts off her lightsaber, letting the hum die down, letting the room fall dark. She kneels down, her lightsaber in front of her, and breathes out, then in, then out. She lets the calming darkness surround her, breathes it in, the shadow of the night that on Tatooine had meant safety and cool air.

Quietly, in the dark, she hears footsteps.

Not walking away, but walking closer, the door opening, her watcher taking steps into the salle, towards her.

Shmi stands and turns, coming face-to-face with the Jedi who’s been watching her train alone at night for weeks.

“Ataru does not seem to be working well for you,” Master Dooku observes.

Shmi stays silent, still; she’s not sure what to say. She’s not sure why _he_ , of all people, has been watching her, has been observing her all this time then staring her down in the infirmary rooms like she’s less than a grain of sand.

If it were to mock her, then he would be mocking her.

But he’s not.

He takes a deep breath – and suddenly Shmi realizes that he is just as nervous as she is; he doesn’t know how to treat her, how to react to her, what they are to each other, having the same teaching master.

“I would appreciate,” she says, quietly, gently, “Any advice you have.”

He stares at her for another long, long moment. Then he nods.

“Ataru is considered by many the most difficult form, excepting the Vaapad,” Dooku says. “I cannot fathom why Yoda began with that rather than a simpler form.”

“Perhaps because I haven’t needed simplicity in any other place here,” Shmi says.

Dooku inclines his head. “And I have no doubt that you’ve done little to remedy this situation,” he says.

“My master did say that his line tends to be stubborn,” Shmi says, meeting Dooku’s eyes.

She catches a tiny flash of deep amusement from him, though no hint of a smile crosses his face. “Indeed,” Dooku says. “You have the basics of the first form down, from what I have seen; Shii-Cho, at least, has been as easy for you as all else has.”

“If you’ve been watching me,” Shmi says, “You’ll know how easy it’s been.”

They stand in silence for another long moment.

“We practice Shii-Cho from childhood,” Dooku says abruptly. “So that by the time we become padawans, the basic moves are almost more than muscle memory, and we may specialize further. Most other forms build on this muscle memory; save for one, which complements it.”

Shmi thinks for a moment – then realizes what he’s talking about.

“Makashi,” she says. “Form II.”

He nods. “It is a difficult form,” he warns her.

“As are they all,” she says. “I never expected it to be easy; but this clearly isn’t working.”

Dooku hesitates, then sighs. “It appears not,” he says. “If you…” he hesitates some more.

Shmi waits.

“If you… would like some extra instruction,” he says, slowly, awkwardly, and Shmi again sees that he is just as nervous about her as she is about him. “I… could help provide it.”

“I would like that,” Shmi says. “Thank you, Master Dooku.”

“You are welcome,” he says, then takes a breath and steps forwards. “Makashi,” he says, “is a form of precision; where Shii-Cho disarms, Makashi deflects, and where Shii-Cho waits for openings, Makashi makes them. To begin…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify some points about lightsaber combat:  
> I figure that the basics that all initiates learn is Form I, Shii-Cho, focused on disarming. This is what Shmi's been practicing for most of her time at the temple; now that she has the basics she's moving on to a more specialized form, as Jedi do when they become padawans. Form I isn't really considered a "specialization," since everyone learns it.  
> I made all this up myself. If some of it isn't correct, feel free to let me know, but I probably won't change anything. (edit: So apparently some Jedi do specialize in Form I! I'm still going to say that's a much rarer thing and not commonly regarded as an option, or something you should do.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading this - I'm so glad that so many people like it :D


	6. Chapter 6

Shmi usually eats lunch in the gardens.

She’s still not fully used to three large meals a day; so really, lunch is more of a snack, and since she can take it anywhere she wants, the gardens are an obvious choice.

There are so many different shades of _green_ , some tinged with blue or purple or yellow, some lined with veins, some completely smooth. Some plants flower or grow fruit in all the colors she can imagine, more vivid than the sheen of light on oil and more vibrant than anything she’d seen in Gardulla’s palace.

She sits at the base of a tree, its red-brown bark pressing roughly against her skin, soaking in the artificial sunlight – so much weaker than the twin suns, warming, not burning.

“Oh,” someone says from above her. “Shmi.”

Obi-Wan is sitting in the branches of the tree, half-concealed by the leaves.

“How did you get up there?” Shmi asks, not bothering to disguise the wonder in her voice. She should have thought of _that_.

“Um,” Obi-Wan says. “I… climbed?”

Shmi narrows her eyes, assessing the tree, then grabs onto a branch.

“You don’t have to… join me,” Obi-Wan says.

“But I want to,” she says, settling herself onto a branch slightly below Obi-Wan. “I’ve never been in a tree before.”

Obi-Wan stays quiet.

Shmi stays quiet, too; it’s wonderful to be sitting up here, in between the leaves, above the ground but still connected to it. She lets bits of that wonder leak out, sink into the atmosphere, hoping that Obi-Wan will feel it, too.

“What was it like?” He asks eventually. “Living in the desert. No water, no trees, barely any plants or animals at all…”

“Well, for one,” Shmi says, “Mos Espa wasn’t the true desert. Well, I can see how it looked like that to an offworlder; but really, the desert is the wildlands – where you can wander for thousands of miles and not see another sentient, where there’s barely any shelter from the suns at all.” She tilts her head back, leaning against the tree’s trunk. “It was beautiful,” she says.

Obi-Wan feels startled. “It sounds… deadly,” he says. “Barren, lifeless.”

“Oh, the desert is full of life,” Shmi says. “The womp rats, the krayt dragons, the jawas and the tuskens… even more than that, the plants, the japoor roots and ginsu bushes and kaktru plants. You can _live_ in the desert, if you know how.” She shrugs. “Coruscant seems lifeless, too – all metal and built. But here we are.”

“Here we are,” Obi-Wan says quietly.

They sit in silence a while longer; an artificial breeze rustles the leaves of the tree they’re in. Shmi’s not sure what kind of tree it is, other than that it’s larger than any she’s seen before (which isn’t saying much); its leaves are needles, almost like cacti but not.

There must be so many different types of trees on so many different worlds. So many different uncountable plants, each taking in water, taking in sunlight, and breathing out life.

Yes, there was life on Tatooine; but there was also slavery. It would feel different now, Shmi thinks, to breathe in the desert air, to see the twin suns set and rise, because she would be walking and breathing as a free woman.

Maybe she will go back some day.

No – she _will_ go back some day.

And she’ll free all the slaves; she’ll teach them how to feel for their transmitters as she did, or build a machine to find them, like Ani has always talked about.

She doesn’t regret leaving, but she does regret having to leave people behind.

“Do you have any regrets?” Obi-Wan asks, echoing her thoughts.

“What do you really want to know?” Shmi says in return, because whatever Obi-Wan is asking, that’s not it.

He’s silent for a long moment – searching himself or gathering up the courage to ask, Shmi doesn’t know.

“The council wants to knight me,” Obi-Wan says. “They’ve wanted to ever since we got back from Naboo.”

“But you haven’t let them,” Shmi says. Their group – Siri and Bant and sometimes Quinlan, and other friends that are off-planet on long-term missions – has quietly decided to not press Obi-Wan for information. And he hasn’t told them anything.

“No,” Obi-Wan says. “I haven’t.”

Shmi waits, listening, giving him time to speak. Emotions roll off of him in gentle waves; a conflict, _I’ve wanted this for so long_ and _but not like this_ , a fear, _what if I’m not ready_ , a hope.

“I just… I want Master Qui-Gon to be there,” he whispers.

“Oh,” Shmi says quietly.

Obi-Wan takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I shouldn’t be this conflicted,” he says. “I… I shouldn’t be this _attached_ , he’s trained me so well to be a good Jedi, and here I am clinging on like a youngling.” He feels bitter, self-loathing and doubting.

Shmi takes a deep breath. “Attachment isn’t wrong,” she says quietly, firmly. “I know what they say – how it can lead to darkness, to destruction.”

“And it is!” Obi-Wan argues. “I’ve felt – _awful_. Like I’m barely even a Jedi at all–”

“What’s making you feel that way?” Shmi asks, staring out through the leaves. “Your attachment, or the teachings?”

Obi-Wan falls silent.

“It seems to me,” she continues, “That the best thing to do, the healthiest thing to do, should be the thing that causes the least self-doubt. I’ve heard the argument that attachments will cause you to fear for those you’re attached to, and fear leads to anger, and so on. But you feel fear for the safety of people you aren’t even attached to – the people you’re trying to protect on a mission, whether you know them or not. And you don’t let that fear overwhelm you. And you haven’t let fear for Qui-Gon overwhelm you, either – you beat the Sith, without falling to your anger. But now you feel all this doubt, all this self-loathing. Part of it may be because you feel like you could have done better, which I think you know is not true; you need to work through that yourself, or with help. But doubting yourself because you want Qui-Gon to be there, because you care for him? I can’t see the harm that attachment is bringing. I can only see the harm caused by the teachings.”

She pauses, lets the leaves whisper in the artificial wind. Obi-Wan’s emotions are in turmoil – he wants to believe her.

“What I think the teachings should be saying, maybe are _meaning_ to say,” she says gently, “Is that you can let attachments bolster you, build you up, let you feel loved. But don’t let them overwhelm you. Don’t let them smother you. If we’re supposed to uphold peace in the galaxy, then we need to feel peace, and attachments can help with that.”

“But this isn’t _bringing_ me peace,” Obi-Wan says bitterly. “And I know what you’re going to say – it’s the teachings that are causing me distress, not the attachment.” He sighs. “You’re too much like Master Qui-Gon sometimes, you know.”

Shmi raises an eyebrow, though Obi-Wan can’t see it. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,” she says, and the mood lightens a little.

She can feel Obi-Wan’s smile. “It depends,” he says, “On what kind of a mood you’re in, what kind of a mood I’m in, and on what kind of a mood Qui-Gon was in when I last spoke to him.”

Shmi laughs. Then the mood sobers a little bit, as the mention of Qui-Gon reminds them of his current state.

“I’ve been thinking,” Obi-Wan says. “About what you said, about emotions. About finding calm.” He sighs. “I looked in the archives, and there are – there are some ancient teachings, old mantras. Master Yoda’s taught you the code?”

“He has,” Shmi says.

“There’s a different version,” Obi-Wan says. “An older version. The one we use now – _There is no emotion, there is peace_ – it’s a simplified version, developed by Master Odan-Urr millennia ago. The older version is…”

“More complicated?” Shmi asks. “Or just different?”

“… Both of those,” Obi-Wan says after a moment. “ _Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force_.”

“I can see how that’s both simpler and more complicated,” Shmi says. “Has it… helped?”

“I think so,” Obi-Wan says.

“Good,” Shmi says.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. Slowly, slowly, Shmi can feel him examining his own emotions, calming himself down through self-knowledge rather than denial.

“I want Qui-Gon to be there,” he says. “But… I’m going to need to let the council knight me eventually. Especially if I’m going to take Anakin as my padawan… what was it, before he turns ten?”

“No bets were placed, since everyone seemed to agree,” Shmi says, feeling laughter bubble up inside her. “You’ll just have to decide for yourself.”

Obi-Wan sighs and stares up at the sky – well, the artificial sky. “Ah, well. We might want to head elsewhere – the rain cycle will start up in a few minutes.”

She’s never seen rain from this perspective before. “I think I’ll stay,” Shmi says, and smiles.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever tire of rain.

Yoda finds her there, half an hour later, after the rain has died down, using the wind to keep a swirl of leaves floating in front of her.

“Wanted to speak to me, you did,” he says, leaping up onto the same branch Shmi’s sitting on.

She lets the wind between her hands die down, let the leaves finish dancing and twisting their way to the ground. “… I suppose I did,” she says finally. “About a few different things.”

“Hmmm,” Yoda says, and waits.

“Master Dooku,” she says, then pauses.

Yoda nods slowly. “Difficult, this has been for him,” he says. “Difficult, things have been between the two of you. So. Improved, the situation has? Or worsened?”

“He’s offered to teach me Makashi,” Shmi says.

Yoda is silent for a long moment.

“Ataru looks amazing,” Shmi says. “But I… I’m not _good enough_. I need a better background, better grounding in the basics – and I need to learn a saber form. And Dooku…” She looks down. “At first, I thought he disliked me,” she says. “Because he thought I was taking his place, or something like that. But… I don’t know if this has been true all along, or if something has changed. But he’s nervous around me. He…” She sighs. “It’s like he wants to make a good impression, or be helpful, but is so paralyzed by not knowing what to do that he comes off as angry or dismissive.”

Yoda is nodding slowly. “Always a difficulty of his, that has been,” he says. “And…” he sighs. “Glad I am, that an alternative you have found, if not working for you, Ataru has been.”

Shmi puts a hand on top of Yoda’s smaller green one. “Now isn’t the time for me to be learning Ataru,” she says. “Later, maybe – but not now.”

He smiles, his eyes crinkling up. “A pleasure, it always is,” he says, “To have such a wise padawan.”

Shmi blushes. She’s not quite sure what to say, especially to the burst of pride that Yoda projects towards her.

“Something else, you wanted to discuss,” he says.

Shmi thinks for a moment, then says, again, “Not now.” There are things she needs to do – people she needs to talk to, stories she needs to hear. The Jedi have a problem with emotions, with feeling things… with trusting themselves, almost. And this… this is one of the foundations of the Order, or so they say.

Yoda chose Shmi because she made a good argument; that doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s ready to challenge his entire belief system. Not without a good, solid argument at the ready.

Then she blinks a bit, thinking of something. “Actually, yes, there was something else,” she says. “I’d like to go down to the lower levels some time.”

Yoda frowns a bit. “Alone, you wish to go,” he says.

“Yes,” Shmi says.

He waits a few moments longer, thinking – feeling, maybe.

Then he nods.

“Dangerous, it is,” he says. “Promise me, that safe, you will be?”

“I promise,” she says.

Then, together, they sit back and listen to the wind, blowing through the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all - I've been having a not super great time lately, and it's fantastic to see all the kudoses and comments and bookmarks <3 <3 <3
> 
> (okay this is a little bitter on the repost but oh well I've still got all your lovely comments in my email)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explorations and warnings.

The lower levels are loud – not necessarily noisy, but _loud_ , in the way that markets and slums all around the galaxy are.

This is her third visit to the lower levels since she talked to Yoda about it, though, so by now Shmi is starting to remember how to move with the chaos and bustle and swearing.

Someone bumps into her and spits out a few rude words in Bocce; Shmi matches them insult for insult in Huttese, and the crowd moves on.

Shmi’s destination is two levels lower, and a little further to the west; the press of the crowds makes it hard to navigate, but there are enough people going to the same place that she can make her way.

The Seepana Market is only one of the many markets that Shmi’s found in her explorations and research (this is her third visit since she’s spoken to Yoda; Adi _did_ say she should become more comfortable with minor misbehaviors). It’s one of the nicer markets around, though; not by having higher quality goods, but by having kinder vendors, and slightly fewer pickpockets.

The market takes up almost a whole block, stretching seven rows of stalls on one side, five on the other, and four rows upwards; all the vendors politely scream out into the crowds of passing people, and the crowds of passing people politely pretend that they haven’t heard anything until they get to the stall they want.

“Melioorun! Fresh melioorun fruits–”

“Power converters, barely used–”

“You look like you could use a–”

“Come buy–”

“Fresh–”

“High-quality–”

“Best fabric on the level!”

There.

Shmi threads her way through the crowd, moving towards the fabric stall.

“Mistress Shmi! So good to see you again!” The stallkeeper beams.

Shmi smiles back. “Good to see you, too, Lannai.”

Lannai is a humanoid, probably of mixed heritage; Shmi can’t quite pin down her species, between her luminescent green eyes and the red-tinged-purple hair.

“Finally settled on a color, hmm?” Lannai asks. “Better than that dusty grey thing.”

Shmi glances down; she’s wearing the dress she’d left Tatooine with, the rough grey one, as she’s done every time she’s come to the lower levels. “I told you,” she says. “My employers insist on providing clothing that’s _far_ too flimsy for any real work; this is the only thing that’ll hold up down here.”

Lannai shakes her head, _tsk_ ing. “Rich folks. They’ve got no sense of how sturdy cloth needs to be when you’re working on…” she eyes Shmi.

“Mechanics,” Shmi says.

Lannai’s eyes light up – well, even moreso than usual. “You have any tips about what to do for a wonky ventilation unit?”

They swap tips for a while, Shmi trying to figure out what’s going on with Lannai’s ventilation unit just from her description and Lannai going through color swatches and fabric types, trying to figure out what would be best for Shmi.

“A trade,” Shmi says finally. “I come in and fix your ventilator, you throw in an extra roll in that yellow-sun’s-sky blue.”

Lannai tilts her head for a moment, then nods sharply. “Deal,” she says, and they clasp hands and shake on it.

“You from a yellow sun world, then?” Lannai asks as Shmi’s fitting the cloth rolls into the bag she’s brought.

Shmi nods. “Binary system, actually. Tatooine.”

“Ah, yes, you mentioned the sand,” Lannai says. “Didn’t think there was much out there but hutts and their slaves.”

“There isn’t,” Shmi says. “But when you happen to repair a passing rich being’s ship…” she shrugs, lets a small smile cross her face. “They happen to be thankful.”

Lannai shivers. “And I thought here was bad. I’d say the sun guide you to the surface, but it sounds like you’ve had enough surface for three lifetimes.”

Shmi smiles at her. “I may have, but thank you. And I am actually on the surface a reasonable amount – spacers need their ships fixed, too.”

“Spacers,” Lannai says, and snorts. “Can’t even keep their ships running, let alone their clothes – _Hands off unless you’re buying_ ,” she snarls at a trandoshan, who hisses back but moves on.

“They do what they can,” Shmi says. “Not like senators, though, from what I’ve seen – they seem to wreck ships for the fun of it.”

“Oh, _senators_ ,” Lannai says. “Like they’ve got any sense at all. Have you _seen_ the way most of them dress?”

“A few,” Shmi says. “Did you see holos of the Naboo queen, when she visited two months ago?”

Lannai sighs. “Of course I did,” she says. “What I wouldn’t give to move to Naboo, with their colors and the cut of their gowns and the variety – the _meaning_ they invest in those clothes, Shmi, that is _beautiful_. Like, when the Queen came here – the dark red on the outer robe means she was showing her strength, but the light red on the inner robe is her looking for help, showing some vulnerability. And the gold and yellow embroidery–”

Shmi lets Lannai talk on for a bit; it’s not that it isn’t fascinating, but Padmé had explained the same thing on the ship as they travelled to Naboo.

“That’s amazing,” Shmi says when Lannai’s done. “Does the Naboo Senator – the Chancellor, now, I suppose – does he have that much meaning in his clothes?”

Lannai… Lannai actually hesitates.

“What is it?” Shmi asks quietly.

“Well,” Lannai says quietly, covertly checking around, making sure that nobody can hear them over the market’s bustle. “He’s wearing robes in the official Chancellor’s style, in the Naboo red for vitality and idealism – but he’s not really showing those values. Combined with the blue, for new life and hope, that… well, it could mean that he’s celebrating his and his planet’s victory, or… or that he’s gloating, in a way, saying _I lived, I won, I will emerge always victorious_.”

Shmi feels a strange sense of foreboding.

“He was wearing the Chancellor’s blue before, too,” Lannai continues, “Which means he’s been gunning for the position. Probably relieved that his planet turned out safe and he came out on top,” she says, but Shmi can tell that she doesn’t believe it.

“Palpatine’s not popular down here?” Shmi says carefully.

Lannai flashes her a quick smile. “He promises reformation and peace in the wider galaxy and pays no attention to us little folk; from what you’ve been through it sounds like the wider galaxy does need some help. But is he giving that help?” She shakes her head. “Don’t speak about it too loudly, though. There’ve been rumors.”

Shmi feels chill-bumps raise against her arms as she thanks Lannai and moves on. Surely Palpatine was just glad because his people had been saved.

That had to be it.

 

* * *

 

 

Makashi is hard.

Makashi is hard, but Shmi is determined; she is going to get this _right_.

She understands why Makashi isn’t a popular style; it requires perseverance and precision, and there haven’t been many lightsaber-to-lightsaber battles for a thousand years.

But she and Yoda know that there are more Sith out there, maybe more entrenched than anyone had thought; lightsaber-to-lightsaber combat is going to be necessary.

As for the precision… well.

“Good,” Dooku says. “Now do that again, except keep your hand an inch and a half to the left.”

Shmi does the motion again, keeping her hand more to the left.

“Hm,” Dooku says, sweeping around. “Good. Now, ten more times.”

Dooku is a harsh teacher – but he’s as clear as transparisteel about his reasons and his expectations, especially after two weeks of Makashi training on top of his time watching her before.

“Master Yoda and I will be leaving tomorrow,” Shmi says on her fifth repetition. “To Cato Neimoidia.”

“Keep your leg bent and steady,” Dooku warns her, then frowns. “This has to do with your investigations about the recent elections somehow?”

Shmi almost messes up the next repeat – the seventh – but doesn’t, because she is calm and steady and Dooku likes trying to surprise her so she’s used to it by now. “I wasn’t aware you were following our research.”

She doesn’t see Dooku roll his eyes, but his tone makes it clear that’s what he’s doing. “You think that you and Master Yoda are the only ones suspicious about Valorum’s sudden resignation?” he says. “Senator Teem is a dead end, by the way. He’s exactly as corrupt as you’d expect the senator from Malastare to be – some bribery, a bit of vote suppression, ignoring the dugs in favor of the gran – but no more than that.”

Shmi nods her thanks. They’ll still need to do some investigation – Dooku can’t have been looking specifically for Sith involvement, so he may have missed something – but it is helpful. “Investigating the Trade Federation some more,” she says, finishing up the set of ten. “Seeing if they had any more involvement than the obvious.”

Dooku nods slowly. “Cato Neimoidia is harsh,” he warns her. “Not just in the landscape, though there are several dangerous predators; the politics can get downright… deadly.”

Shmi sighs. “You’d think that people would remember more that I’m not a typical Temple-raised padawan,” she says. “Honestly. I’m from _Tatooine_. I know all the gossip about Cato Neimoidia.” She tilts her head, considering the exercises. “Another ten?” She asks Dooku.

But he’s frowning at her, distracted. “Tatooine?”

Shmi frowns back at him. “You didn’t hear that, in all your following me around?”

He shakes his head. “I make it a point not to listen to Temple gossip.”

“Gossip can tell you almost everything you need to know,” she points out, then shakes her head. “I’m from Tatooine, yes. Ani and I were slaves there.” She really, really hopes that he already knows the ‘slave’ part.

Dooku is standing stone-still.

Dammit.

“Qui-Gon freed Ani,” she says, trying to get the story over with. “I cut out my transmitter, we came here, and Master Yoda liked my arguing with the council. That’s most of the important parts.”

“I… see,” Dooku says quietly. Shmi can feel anger wafting out of him like steam – mostly contained, but starting to boil over.

She breathes slowly, in and out, trying to push calm into the room.

Dooku, either consciously or unconsciously, mimics her.

“It’s behind me now,” Shmi says. “My history – I was a slave. That will always be a part of me; but it can’t hurt me any more. I’m free, now. And so is Ani.” Then she drops down into the beginning stance of the exercise she’s been practicing. “Is this correct?”

“Yes,” Dooku says. “… five more times.”

Shmi does six, to prove her point, then stands upright, turning to face him. “See?” She says. “I do what I want; you don’t need to be gentle, or pitying, or sad. The biggest problem in this galaxy is that nobody helps each other, but you’re not going to be helping me by going easy on me. You want to help? You go free some other people, let them live their lives, too.”

Dooku takes a deep breath. “Fine,” he says. “Your elbow was too high for those last three.”

Shmi nods, then does the exercise again, once, twice, three times.

“Excellent,” Dooku says. “Keep practicing when you’re on Cato Neimoidia; continue with the stretches I showed you as well.”

Shmi nods and bows, the traditional end to a lesson; Dooku bows back.

“Watch after Obi-Wan, while Master Yoda and I are gone?” Something prompts Shmi to ask.

Dooku actually smiles a little. “I have been,” he says, “But I’ll pay more attention. Though if he’d finally let the council knight him–”

“He may,” Shmi says. “But…” she frowns. “Be careful.”

Dooku’s smile vanishes. “What do you feel?” He asks.

Shmi hesitates. “Impurities in a fuel cell,” she says. “A broken connection on a hyperdrive. Something small, but… with consequences.” She’s felt a little nervous ever since the market, but it kept getting… not bigger, but perhaps closer.

“I will be careful,” Dooku says. “Even moreso than usual. And if you’ll be gone for a while…?” he lets it trail off into a question.

“I have no reason to believe we’ll be gone longer than a week or so,” Shmi says very carefully.

“If you’ll be gone for a while,” Dooku says, “Perhaps I can do more research into the other senators.”

Shmi nods slowly. “That could be helpful,” she says. “But… have caution.” Should she warn him about the hints of rumors surrounding Palpatine?

No. They were too insubstantial. But if he found something separately…

“I will,” Dooku says solemnly, then reaches out a hand. “The Force be with you on your mission, sister-padawan.”

Shmi smiles, a small moonrise in her heart. Yoda is her family, now, and Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan too – and now Dooku. “Thank you. And with you as well, brother-padawan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naboo color symbolism mostly taken from [Fialleril's](http://fialleril.tumblr.com/post/145333294961/what-about-black-in-naboo-culture) Naboo color symbolism, which is absolutely brilliant. But the rest of it I just sort of made up.
> 
> The whole "Chancellor's/Senatorial Blue" is a thing, according to wookiepeida.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigations on Cato Neimoidia

The ship to Cato Neimoidia is a public transport, since she and Yoda are trying to keep a lower profile; unfortunately, that also means that their berth space is absolutely tiny. It’s not a problem for Yoda, smug tiny Jedi Master that he is; Shmi just sighs and makes do.

At least her clothes are comfortable; she’s turned Lannai’s soft but durable fabric into a wardrobe of tunics and skirts, echoing the style of the Jedi robes and tabards but still distinct, and in far more colors.

“Careful, we must be,” Yoda says. “Choices we must make – open, about our investigation, will we be? Or secret?”

“If it’s secret, and we get caught, there will be trouble,” Shmi says. “But if we’re open about it, they’ll have more opportunity to hide things.”

“Handle trouble, I think we can,” Yoda says. “If get caught we do, trouble there will be – but trouble for them or trouble for us, hmm?”

“Well,” Shmi says, brushing her fingers over the sling still tied around her wrist, “We’re certainly good at making trouble.”

“Still,” says Yoda. “Try, we should, not to get caught.”

“I thought there was no try,” Shmi says innocently.

Yoda glares at her.

“I’m _very_ sorry, Master,” Shmi says. “I’ll _try_ to improve my attitude.”

“Impudent child,” he says, but she can feel how amused he is.

Their plan is simple: they sneak in to the Trade Federation’s headquarters and see what they can each find separately. After three hours, they meet up again to discuss what they’ve found and decide what to investigate further.

It’s a simple plan that seems like it should work; therefore, it’s almost no surprise when things go wrong.

Cato Neimoidia is dark when they get there – its night cycle is long, especially this time in its solar rotation. This makes it almost laughably easy to sneak into the Trade Federation’s headquarters; at night-time, the guards are on the lookout for turfjumpers and kreehawks, not sneaky Jedi.

 _Go left, you will, as I go right from here,_ Yoda whispers in her mind. _Here I will return, in three hours; Force be with you, Padawan_.

The neimoidians are reptilian, though far more humanoid than other reptilian species; Shmi keeps this in mind as she wanders through the building’s hallways.

Also important to keep in mind, she thinks as she peers into rooms. Cato Neimoidia is for rich neimoidians, and rich beings have servants.

Finally, she looks into one room and sees servants. They look like a mix of humans, droids, and a few twi’leks; Shmi looks around for a good place to eavesdrop.

Standing in between two of the fancy pillars lining the hall will let her listen in without being immediately visible; that’s going to have to do for the moment.

It’s typical servant’s gossip for the most part, the kind that Shmi used to participate in – as she’s learned in Coruscant’s lower levels, gossip is roughly the same across the galaxy. And Shmi knows what to listen for.

“–Was almost caught up on the top level–”

“In the Viceroy’s comms room? Yila, that’s off-limits for a _reason_ –”

A giggle. “Asale and I just wanted some _alone_ time, you know–”

An off-limits communications room on the top floor sounds just like what Shmi’s looking for.

The Trade Federation’s headquarters are semi-public, so their repulsorlifts aren’t code or card-locked; Shmi can just ride one all the way to the top floor. If she were more acrobatic, no doubt that she would just jump up the empty shaft. Unfortunately – or maybe thankfully – she’s not that daring yet.

On the way up, she practices what Yoda calls listening to the Force, and what Shmi visualizes as reaching out and finding living things.

She can feel the various servants in the room, taking a break or relaxing after a long day of work – but she knows they’re there, it’s not a challenge to find them. What _is_ a challenge is reaching up, all the way to the top of the building…

She think she can feel two… no, three people, all clustered close together. Neimoidians, all of them – reptilian minds feel different than mammalian ones. The rest of the floor is deserted.

Perfect.

The repulsorlift slows to a stop and the doors open, letting in several mouse droids and letting out Shmi.

“… a complete failure,” a voice hisses, and something about it sounds _dark_.

“My lord,” says a neimoidian. “It is hardly our fault that Viceroy – _ex_ -Viceroy Gunray was unable to avoid prison! You, with your contacts in the senate, could not–”

“My contacts,” the voice says, “Did what they were supposed to. But Gunray’s incompetence is what doomed him; I hope that you will not fail me as he has, Viceroy Haako.”

“Of course not, Lord Sidious,” Haako says, but Shmi stops listening for a brief moment to think and breathe.

The Sith is speaking through a hologram – she can hear the slightly tinny undertone, and the blue glow is clear through the open doorway. But he is clearly _the Sith_. The one with contacts in the senate, the one who’d planned the invasion of Naboo.

“My lord,” says another neimoidian. “Your – ah – late apprentice – before he accompanied us to Naboo, he left an… an object that he’d recovered. We presume that you would like it back?”

“I would,” Sidious says, sounding as cold as the black of space. “When you come to me two weeks hence, bring it with you. If you do not, I will be… most displeased.”

“Yes, my lord,” the neimoidians chorus, then Shmi can hear the hologram shutting down.

She takes a few steps behind one of the columns bordering the open door – it’s a risk, but there’s nowhere else she can hide.

As the neimoidians leave, arguing quietly – not all of them like Sidious, an important fact that Shmi makes a note of – none of them turn around. But Shmi still doesn’t feel fully safe until the repulsorlift’s doors have been closed for a few minutes.

Then, slowly, carefully, listening for the smallest sound, she creeps into the comms room.

It’s fancy, if fairly standard; Shmi doesn’t expect to find any physical information here. What’s important is checking the hologram table’s encryptions, and the code of the last call it placed.

It’s quite possibly the most encrypted table she’s seen; even working from a computer that has the encryptions programmed in, it takes her over an hour to decode the last used comm code.

She doesn’t recognize the number; she does recognize the planetary coordinates and area code. Senate District, Coruscant.

The Sith doesn’t just have connections in the senate.

The Sith is _in_ the senate.

Shmi memorizes the code; she’s still got almost another hour before she meets up again with Yoda, but she’s not going to risk being late. She glances around the room once more, quickly, making sure there’s not anything she missed. The neimoidians wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave whatever object Sidious had wanted alone in the room–

Or maybe they would have been, Shmi thinks, staring down at a small object practically radiating darkness.

She reaches for Yoda in her mind, wondering if he’d recognize whatever type of object this is; she knows that the Jedi have records of some Sith devices, but she hasn’t looked over them yet.

But Yoda is too far away for her to reach. They’ve only managed reliable thought-speech when they’re in the same room as each other; being on other sides of a building may as well be as far away as another planet.

Shmi has to make this decision herself.

The object is just sitting on a side-table. Shmi can’t see any pressure-plates, motion detectors, or connecting wires; she should be able to just pick it up.

She does.

It feels _very_ dark, especially sitting in the palm of her hand, almost enough to make her feel sick; but Shmi lets the darkness flow around and off her, like sand flowing off the back of a krayt dragon.

She can’t imagine what could be so dark about a small black engraved pyramid, though.

Shmi slips it into the pouch she keeps on her belt, in with the plasma stones for her sling.

Time to head back to the meeting spot, she thinks, but that’s when alarms start to blare.

She spares a second to glance back – nothing had changed about the pyramid’s table. But clearly something had set off the alarm.

No time to wonder set it off, though, not with horns blaring and a robotic voice declaring the intruder alert; Shmi lets her anxiety, her terror of being caught, her fear flow out of her, then she Forces open the repulsorlift doors.

And here I was, she thinks, relieved that I wouldn’t be jumping up the shaft.

There are enough handholds that she could climb down, slowly and steadily, like climbing through the engines of a ship; but that would take too long.

Besides, the very first lesson of Ataru – the only one she’d actually managed to learn – had been about slowing her momentum and surviving falls.

She takes a deep breath and jumps.

It’s…

It’s _exhilarating_.

She thinks she understands what Ani loves about flying, now.

Before long, she sees the top of the actual lift coming up below her; she turns and, with the Force, _pushes_ her momentum in the other direction, landing with a soft thud on the top of the lift.

“What was that?” A voice from inside asks.

Oops.

Shmi pulls open the nearest set of doors and darts out into the main building, closing the doors behind her; according to the sign, she’s on the second level, right near where she and Yoda were supposed to meet.

There’s something tickling in the back of her mind; she reaches out towards it.

It’s like searching for living things with the Force, reaching out and expanding her view, she realizes – it’s Yoda trying to talk to her from a distance.

 _Sorry, I am_ , Yoda says, his voice sounding distant and echoing. _Triggered the alarm, I did; but records I have. Safe, are you?_

 _For now_ , Shmi replies. _I found things, too. Where should I meet you?_

 _Return to the upper floors of the building, I cannot_ , Yoda says. _Escape the building, can you?_

 _I can_ , Shmi says. _I’ll meet you at the spaceport?_

Yoda sends back an affirmative feeling, and a warm tendril of comfort and pride and success.

Shmi doesn’t wait another moment. She runs to where they’d planned to meet – right by a window, the easiest way in and out of the building for a Jedi. After opening the repulsorlift’s doors, it’s even easier to push the window open and leap out; the guards have all been drawn inside by Yoda’s alarm, so none are there to see a humanoid figure leap out a window then sneak away into the city’s streets.

 

* * *

 

It takes her longer than she’d like to find the spaceport, and with all the times she feels the need to duck and hide away from guard patrols it takes her nearly until dawn to actually get there.

It’s been hours; the neimoidians will know by now that she’s taken the pyramid. She can’t risk being randomly searched, and even though she looks like one of many human servants, even they are being detained for searches.

She hasn’t been able to contact Yoda again, either, even by reaching out and trying to find him. There are just too many people in the city; reaching out overwhelms her, like it had before her shields were up.

But Yoda will find her at the spaceport, or so she hopes. Even if he doesn’t immediately, she’ll be able to wait around until she spots him, or he spots her, or–

The spaceport is closed.

She slows to a halt, staring around at all the grounded ships, all the guards hovering around menacingly, all the pilots and captains sitting glumly on the ground near their ships.

She doesn’t see Yoda anywhere.

She can’t feel him, can only feel the guards’ boredom and vague annoyance, the captains’ anger, the pilots’ frustration.

The spaceport is closed. She has nowhere to go.

“What the kriff _happened?_ ” She hears someone ask, and looks over; looks like the captain of one of the ships, one big enough for a small crew but not big enough to do anything other than transport or smuggling.

“Break-in at the Federation’s HQ, sounds like,” one of the crewmembers replies.

“Any idea when it’ll be lifted?” Shmi finds herself asking, and as one the crew turns to her.

“What do you want?” The captain asks.

“Information.” Shmi shrugs. “Transport, if I can get it, but it’s looking like I won’t for a while.” She smooths her voice over, makes it sound less Tatooine and more sharp, quicker and slightly lilting, more of a spacer’s accent.

“No clue when the block’ll be lifted,” the crewmember who was talking before says. “Could be a few hours; could be a few weeks.”

Shmi can’t wait a few weeks. Unfortunately, she can’t see any other way out of here. “Your crew do transport?” she asks. “If it is lifted soon, I and a friend might like to get off-planet.”

The captain shrugs. “We’ve been known to do transport work, on occasion,” they say. “If you and your friend can pay, of course.”

Shmi nods. “I don’t have any credits with me, but I’ve family off-planet who can forward some to me.”

“How did you even get here, with no credits?” One of the crew – the pilot, maybe – asks.

“I’ve been _looking_ for a job,” Shmi snaps, summoning images of tired spacers and workers travelling through Mos Eisley. “Not my fault nobody’s hiring.” She glances around the spaceport. “Though if you lot know any crews in need of a temp mechanic…?”

“None I know of,” the captain says. “Fine. We’ll take credits after transport, if you and your friend get here when they open the spaceport again.”

Shmi exhales slightly. “My thanks,” she says. “Here’s hoping that’s soon.”

“Here’s hoping,” the captain says, nodding.


	9. Chapter 9

Five days later and the spaceport hasn’t opened yet.

“Word is,” Captain Aza says, “Ports on the whole _planet_ are closed, or going through ridiculous searches.”

“All over, what, a break-in?” Shmi says. “Was anything even stolen?”

Aza shrugs.

She’s lucky that Aza and their crew – Xuka the pilot, Alee the mechanic, and Nezul, the crew’s muscle – could use someone who could not only translate for their astromech but cook a reasonable meal. Otherwise, she’d be out trying to avoid guards on the streets.

“They’re not saying, if anything _was_ stolen,” Xuka says. She’s a togruta, with long white stripes coming down her orange-red cheeks; she’s also gleefully getting beaten at sabacc by Shmi. (“I have to learn somehow,” she’d said when Shmi asked why she kept losing so cheerfully.)

Aza sighs. “Neimoidians,” they mutter.

“Why is a duros captain even on a neimoidian world?” Shmi asks absently. “You – and, well, every other duros I’ve talked to – certainly hates them enough.”

“Credits, as always,” Aza says. “Go to Cato Neimoidia, they said. It’ll have _tons_ of smuggl – ah, people looking for transport, they said.”

“Plenty of smuggling opportunities, too,” Shmi says, still making sure to look like she’s paying more attention to the game than to the captain.

“You’re not interested in any of that, are you?” Aza asks warily.

Shmi shakes her head. “I just want off-planet,” she says. “Then I’ll be out of your hair, and you’ll have to find a new cook – and get a better translation program for poor Enthree.”

L9-N3 beeps in agreement.

Enthree is very patient, especially for a droid on a ship with a malfunctioning translation unit and nobody understanding binary; however, even its patience had been running low.

[Shmi,] Enthree says as Xuka completely fails to bluff her way through the next round of sabacc. [News of your robbery!]

[It’s not _my_ robbery,] Shmi whistles back. [What news?]

[The law enforcement has been in pursuit of a being for the past five days and fourteen hours,] Enthree beeps out. [They lost the being’s trail twenty-one hours ago, near Tarko-se.]

Shmi stares down at the droid. “How did you find that out?” She asks, completely forgetting about both speaking in binary and the sabacc game.

[Law enforcement communications are encrypted when used within the law enforcement’s system, but the Trade Federation’s surface-level communication encryptions are not so hard to decipher,] Enthree says, sounding almost _smug_.

“What did it say?” Captain Aza asks, looking suspicious – not that that’s much of a change from normal.

“News of my… my friend,” Shmi says distantly. “Near Tarko-se.”

“That’s nearly a quarter of the way around the planet,” Xuka says. “Your friend travels _fast_.”

“He does,” Shmi says. “I–”

“ _Attention, all beings_ ,” A nasally neimoidian voice calls out – the neimoidian government (or, more likely, the Trade Federation) is making an announcement to the spaceport, or maybe to the entire city.

Shmi can feel the hope grow in Aza’s crew, the idea that maybe the spaceport will open.

“ _Attention_ ,” the voice says again. “ _Security forces are attempting to detain a being, unknown species, wanted for the recent attack in our city._ ”

“So they’re calling it an attack, now?” Captain Aza grumbles. “I hate this planet.”

“ _This being is green, roughly two-thirds of a meter tall,_ ” the announcement continues. “ _And was last sighted near Tarko-se, but may be anywhere within the surrounding vicinity. Be warned that the being is highly dangerous, and may have an accomplice. We ask for your help in detaining this dangerous individual or individuals, so that our planet may return to its peaceful state._ ”

The speaker crackles out in a spurt of static.

Shmi thinks a few very rude words as the crew turns to stare at her.

There are a few ways she could play this, she thinks quickly. Pretending to not know what’s going on… that will end badly. It’s already clear that she’s involved; the crew’s not going to believe her if she tries to disconnect herself from the crime.

She could tell them the whole truth – that she’s a Jedi padawan. But… they’re smugglers. There’s no telling how they’ll react to that.

And as for the third option, well, they’re _smugglers_.

“Wow,” Shmi says, eyes wide, clearly lying. “What a strange coincidence.”

Captain Aza stares at her, narrow-eyed, for a long moment. “What a strange coincidence,” they finally agree. “I wonder if there was any… profit involved, at the break-in?”

She sighs, exaggerating her movements. “I bet it would have been nice for those thieves if there had been any profit. But from what the news is sounding like, I doubt they actually escaped with anything.” Except a strange Sith artifact, she finishes in her head.

“Well.” Captian Aza shrugs. “Profit doesn’t always have to mean money, you know. Those thieves could have found a lot of damning information in that building; it would be such a _shame_ for the Trade Federation if it got out, somehow.”

Shmi stills. This… could actually be good for her and Yoda’s goals. “If anyone did escape with information,” she says carefully, “It would probably be the green being; after all, they’re not _sure_ there’s an accomplice.”

Captain Aza nods slowly. “In that case,” they say, “I would be delighted to provide transport for you and your friend off-planet, when the spaceport opens; hopefully that will be soon. It would be such a shame if your friend got tangled up in all this robbery nonsense.”

“It really would be,” Shmi agrees, as the tension in the room relaxes.

“You _really_ don’t like neimoidians, do you,” Xuka says curiously.

“They’re gross,” Captain Aza mutters, making Shmi wonder just how old they are. “And annoying, and they _never_ follow through on deals.”

“I’ve got extended family on Naboo,” Nezul pipes in – the first time she’s participated in the conversation. “Anything that screws over the Federation is good by me.”

Alee just nods.

Xuka grins. “There are enough smuggling places–”

“ _Loose panels_ ,” Captain Aza corrects.

“–To hide your friend, if they can make it here,” Xuka finishes.

Shmi smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “I hope he can.”

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Shmi dreams.

She knows she’s dreaming, which is common enough for her; much rarer are the times when all she can do is watch events pass by her, catching flashes and glimpses and whispers that echo through her bones.

She’s glad that this isn’t one of those dreams.

It’s just a walking-dream, a desert dream, the sky above her blue but not burning, the sand beneath her feet soft and swirling.

Whispers echo in the sands, but she lets them flow past her, over her, and away; she learned long ago that listening to the whispers in her dreams was inviting disaster.

But there is one whisper stronger than the others – no, not a whisper. A scent. Something wet and green, something… familiar? Something like the forest on Naboo, or like a swamp…

She turns towards the scent. Towards that barest hint, in her dreaming mind, of Yoda.

It seems like an age that she walks, or maybe just a few minutes – time is hard to tell, both in deserts and in dreams.

But eventually she takes one step, then another step, and then on the third step she takes her foot lands on damp soil laced through with roots.

The swamp stretches out before her, dark and closed-in after the open sky of her desert. Strange animals call from within; trees and vines seem to stretch towards her, grasping, reaching. Murky water winds its way around what patches of ground are visible; she’s sure that both water and land contain sinkholes, waiting for an unwary person to step on them.

“I have nothing to fear from this place,” she says, and reaches her hand out to touch a vine.

It curls around her hand, trying to take her and trap her and draw her into the tree; it tries to tell her how tired she is, how she should be lying down, relaxing, taking a moment to close her mind’s eyes.

I have to get some shields that do this, Shmi thinks, then reaches out towards the vine again, and thinks as loudly as she can. _Yoda?_

The change is immediate: the vine falls still, stops trying to convince her to let herself be eaten. The swamp lightens, trees leaning away from her, letting more sunlight in. More land is visible, safe land without sinkholes.

 _My padawan_ , she hears, faintly.

 _Are you safe?_ She asks.

The swamp around her ripples – after a moment she realizes it’s laughter. _Safe, I am,_ he says. _In more danger, you are._

 _No, I’m safe,_ she says. _I even have a ride off-planet for when they let ships leave again_. _There’s a duros captain who hates the Trade Federation almost as much as the Naboo do, I think._

Yoda’s laughter ripples through the swamp again. _Most resourceful, you are. If arises an opportunity does to leave this planet, then take it you should; find my own way off, I will_.

Shmi wants to protest; surely Yoda is in more danger than her. But she also knows that he has been a Jedi for over eight centuries; she can trust him with his own decisions, just as he is trusting her.

 _May the Force be with you_ , she whispers, and hears Yoda’s echo of the phrase as she opens her eyes.

The first rays of Cato Neimoidia’s sun peek through the ship’s windows; Shmi yawns and sits up.

Well, she thinks. At least now I have a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (According to wookiepedia, the duros really hate neimoidians, apparently; to be fair, neimoidians sound really hateable.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Cato Neimoidia, finally - but with more people than expected.

Two days later, and Shmi’s learned that while Xuka has absolutely no head for sabacc, Alee can give Shmi a run for her money – “Must be a mechanic thing,” he says, giving her a small smile. She’s glad that he’s finally stopped tiptoeing around her, fearing that he’d lose his job.

But also, two days later, Shmi is bored out of her _mind_.

It’s not like she’s never done tedious work before; it’s not like she’s never been kept inside by a sandstorm that’s raged for days before. But before, there had always been work to do – repairing the vaporators, or starting on a new shirt for Ani, or even telling and retelling old stories and legends.

But here she is, stuck on a ship with nothing to do but cook three times a day and beat amateurs at sabacc.

Luckily for her (and it’s so strange, that she’s thinking of this as _lucky_ ) they’re also running low on food; and since Shmi’s the cook, this means she gets to go with Nezul on the market run to restock their supplies.

Cato Neimoidia’s markets are smaller than Coruscant’s, more like Mos Espa’s – less shouting and screaming, more cursing and bargaining without needing to raise voices to be heard.

She’s busy arguing with a merchant trying to sell her K-rations – the _nerve_ of the merchant, she’s buying for the whole crew and togruta can’t even _eat_ K-rations – when somebody comes up behind her.

She finishes up telling off the merchant and tries to step to the side, but a hand lands on her shoulder and she tenses. She’s undone her padawan braid, tied that strand of hair back into her bun, she’s left her lightsaber and the Sith artifact in a hidden compartment on Aza’s ship, but what if somebody has _recognized_ her–

“I heard you say you’ve got a crew,” a voice says from behind her. “This crew wouldn’t happen to be available to run transport, would it?”

Shmi relaxes. It’s not somebody suspicious of her; it’s somebody who wants, effectively, the same thing she does.

“Sometimes,” she says, turning around. “I’m fairly new to the crew; you’d have to check with our captain.”

The being who’s looking for transport is… unique is the best adjective Shmi can think of. The first thing that attracts her attention is the human infant in a carrying device; the second thing is that the being is mandalorian.

The mandalorian nods – his movements are slightly exaggerated to be clearer through the full-body armor. “Could I talk to your captain, then? I’d be willing to pay extra to get off this mudhole as soon as the block lifts.”

Shmi snorts. “I can think of a lot of people who’d agree with you,” she says. “I’ll take you to them – just let me finish up shopping.”

“Of course,” the mandalorian says, stepping back.

“Shmi, I found the–” Nezul steps out of the crowd, then halts and looks between the two of them. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you attract bounty hunters,” she says. “I _knew_ there was a reason Aza wanted me to go with you.”

“At least I’m not getting mugged,” Shmi points out. Aza’s crew seems to have developed a certain attitude towards Shmi – namely, they seem to have somehow gotten the impression that she falls face-first into trouble wherever she goes.

Which is… not exactly _wrong_. But Shmi resents the implication.

“I’m looking for a ride off this planet, and overheard her mention that she was on a crew,” the mandalorian explains.

Nezul relaxes a tiny bit, though definitely not fully. “I’ve heard that trouble follows mandalorians in the galaxy,” she says.

“I’ve heard that spacers listen to the silliest kind of rumors,” the mandalorian counters.

“I’ve heard,” Shmi says, “That we need to finish the shopping before all the best food is gone, so let’s get on that, shall we?”

Nezul and the mandalorian glare at each other – well, Nezul glares at the mandalorian; he just tilts his helmet at her – but follow Shmi through the remainder of the stalls.

“Your child seems a little young to be traveling with you,” Shmi remarks as she’s checking over freeze-dried fruit for quality.

The mandalorian lets off a flash of anxiety, though nothing changes physically. “His mother’s not… in the picture,” the mandalorian says. “And I can’t leave him alone.”

Shmi nods. “I was the same way with my son,” she says. “You’ve got a good formula to feed him with?”

They talk back and forth a bit about babies, and children; Nezul wanders off eventually, out of boredom, but Shmi has a lot of advice for a first-time parent. The mandalorian is _very_ new at being a parent, and Shmi’s been one for almost ten years.

“Ten years?” The mandalorian asks.

“… Yes?” Shmi half-asks.

He’s silent for a moment. “I think we’ve met before,” he says eventually.

Shmi carefully sets down the fruit she was examining. What has he recognized her as? A Jedi? A runaway slave? She’s honestly not sure which of the two will be worse.

“Gardulla the Hutt,” the mandalorian says suddenly, and Shmi freezes. “You waited tables, right?”

“You’ve got a very good memory,” she says neutrally. Legally, there’s no way he can take her back – but he’s a bounty hunter, and hutts always pay well for runaway slaves to set examples with. If she runs now… there’s no guarantee that she’ll be able to get away from him.

“I’m not going to turn you in,” the mandalorian says, and Shmi looks down to realize that her hands have clenched, her body has tensed, she’s almost turned to run.

And the Jedi think me so good at releasing my fear, she thinks distantly.

“Really, I’m not,” he says. “Hutts are a bunch of _chakaaryc_ to work with.”

Shmi lets herself, _forces_ herself to relax, bit by bit. “There aren’t many people who would recognize the face of a single slave after ten years,” she says.

The mandalorian shrugs. “I’m not many people,” he says.

Shmi can recall him now, faintly – the color and cut of his armor, even in the dull lighting of Gardulla’s dining hall.

Jango Fett.

“Why _are_ you looking for a transport?” Shmi asks, changing the subject. “If I recall correctly–” given that last I heard, you were the Mand’alor, she thinks– “You’re good enough to get a ship of your own.”

She can’t see Fett grimace, but she can feel the emotion that’s promted it. “Got into a scrape lately – somebody stole my ship,” he says. “I was just supposed to be here for a simple meeting, but then there’s somebody breaking into the Trade Federation’s records, and I’m on a chase halfway around the planet, and–” he catches himself, shaking his helmet. “You probably don’t care about any of that.”

Shmi very carefully, very casually shrugs. “It does sound like a bit of an adventure,” she says. At least she knows how Yoda’s getting off-planet now; of course, this means that she’ll have to be a thousand times more careful in the future.

And maybe it means that she’ll be able to get some more information.

“Mostly it was just exhausting,” he says. “And now I can’t find a single ship that doesn’t already have all of its berths taken, and half the ones that have spaces aren’t suitable for Boba.”

She smiles at that; whatever her reservations about Jango Fett, she can’t deny that he loves his son. She can feel it clearly through the Force, the way he warms and lightens whenever he mentions Boba.

“I’m bored,” Nezul says, reappearing suddenly, and Shmi sighs. Aza’s crew are definitely competent – and also definitely very young.

“It’s a good thing we’ve got what we need, then,” she says. “Back to the ship, so that you can actually talk to Captain Aza?”

Fett nods and follows her and Nezul out of the market, towards the spaceport.

Shmi hopes that she isn’t making a huge mistake.

 

* * *

 

Shmi manages to pull Xuka aside and ask her to not mention the whole break-in thing, and Xuka promises to tell Alee and Nezul and Captain Aza; Fett’s introductions to the crew also give her a moment to re-hide her lightsaber and the Sith artifact somewhere still hidden, but more accessible.

Then, it turns out that Jango Fett is able to grant clearance to let them leave the planet.

“You could have mentioned this before,” Shmi points out. “You could have gotten a space on one of those other ships you mentioned with this, most likely.”

Fett shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to go about things the honest way,” he says.

That… sounds very mandalorian of him.

“Also, most of those ships _were_ unsafe for Boba,” he continues. “I’m not going to risk my son like that.”

That excuse makes more sense to Shmi.

Captain Aza discreetly finds time to ask if Shmi has a plan to meet her friend any time before they leave, or if she’ll be staying behind.

“I can meet my friend off-planet,” she says carefully. “We’ve got a system set up, in case we get split up. Get me to Corellia, and I’ll be good.” She doesn’t have plans to meet Yoda on Corellia; however, Adi had shown her a few stashes of emergency credits, so she should be able to find enough to pay Aza and their crew and find another transport to Coruscant afterwards.

This sets the crew into a frenzy – checking and double-checking all the ship’s parts, making sure there won’t be an unexpected malfunction, planning out their hyperspace jumps and getting the coordinates they’ll need. Shmi gets roped into helping Alee go over the hyperdrive – if that malfunctions then they’ll have a whole new set of problems on their hands. It’s surprisingly comforting, doing productive things again after seven days of sitting around on her hands winning at sabacc.

But it’s not until they’re flying away, out of the planet’s gravity well and making the jump to hyperspace that Shmi really relaxes.

It’s a reasonably quick trip from Cato Neimoidia to Corellia, about a day and a half with the quality of hyperdrive they have. Shmi takes the time to breathe out, mentally exhale, and make herself a cup of tea.

It’s not a very good cup of tea – the tea that neimoidians liked and the tea that humans liked didn’t tend to line up – but it’s not as bad as some of the teas she’s had in the past.

Fett, of course, comes and joins her.

“Shmi, right?” he asks.

She inclines her head a bit. “Shmi Skywalker, yes. It’s nice to meet you again, mister Fett.”

“Jango,” he says. “I was–”

Boba lets out a _wail_ , making Jango grimace and Shmi wince.

“Shhh,” he says. “Hush, shhh, Boba, ad’ika, it’s all right, shh–” he lifts Boba out of the sling and into his arms, rocking him back and forth, but Boba keeps crying.

“Here,” Shmi says, and reaches out her arms.

Fett – Jango – hesitates a long moment, then gently hands her the screaming baby.

She bounces him gently, humming a bit. “My, you’re loud, aren’t you,” she says, half sing-song, and projects into the Force – calm, calm, safe, secure. “Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm – Rock-a-bye baby, on the spaceship, when the star blows, the shielding will slip. When the shields fail, the airlocks will crack, and all of us go out into the black…”

Boba quiets down with her singing, staring up at her with wide brown eyes.

“It’s the hyperspace travel,” Jango says, grimacing, once they can hear each other again. “Half the time he’s perfectly fine with it, half the time…” he shakes his head.

“I’m lucky that Ani was older when we went on our first hyperspace trip,” Shmi says. “He kept complaining about the cold, though.”

Jango nods. “I can believe that, after Tatooine,” he says. “How long ago were you freed?”

Shmi’s quiet for a long moment. How much can she tell him?

“Ani was freed just recently,” she says. “Rich patron got stranded near where we lived; Ani fixed their ship’s hyperdrive motivator, the patron decided that they’d do Ani a favor.” She shrugs a bit. “I… freed myself, and followed.” She smooths her fingers through the hair that’s just starting to grow on Boba’s head; this child will never be a slave, but she can remember holding Ani like this, the fear that he would be taken, sold away to strangers, lost forever.

“Ani did used to cry,” she says, surprising herself. “All the time. But that wasn’t really…”

Jango is watching her, and she can feel the sympathy, the pity.

She takes a deep breath. “If I needed to calm him down quickly, skin contact was the best – or being wrapped up, held tightly. It reminds babies of how it felt before they were born, helps relax them.”

“Huh.” Jango almost twitches at that – it seems… strange, but Shmi files it away as something to worry about later. “I’ll take your advice, then.”

“Best of luck to you,” she says, and hands back Boba. “I’m going to go get some rest.”

Jango nods absentmindedly, already focused back on his son, and Shmi takes her leave.

She’ll just have to cope with not getting more information on the neimoidians. She wasn’t expecting…

She wasn’t expecting _that_.

Not such a sharp reminder that she had been a slave, that Ani had been a slave, that some nights she’d had to quiet him down or risk him getting killed, thrown out into the desert and left to die, getting sold away from her, away from any reminder of who he was.

It’s strange, she thinks, how it feels like somebody is seeing through my skin to my bones and my soul and finding nothing but chains. Even though he knows I’m freed, treats me as freed.

She closes her eyes, laying down on the bunk she’s been loaned. She knows her lightsaber is hidden under the bunk, the hum of its crystal as comforting as the Sith artifact’s murmurs are disturbing. She can almost feel them, she thinks, looking for cracks to eat into, to erode, to shatter–

 _No_.

Shmi takes a breath in, a breath out, remembers the scorching heat of the desert – not the suffocating scents of Gardulla’s halls but the burning taste of desert air on her tongue, the freedom of sandstorms.

For the first time since she was on Corellia, for the first time since she learned how to make canyons in her shields to feel for others’ minds, she turns the walls of her mind into pure, solid rock.

The artifact’s aura has been affecting her more than she thought.

She can still feel it, trying to erode away her shields, but it’s not getting past the slicing sands that cover her bedrock.

There’s the tiniest of beeps, from under her bunk.

“Well, now. Isn’t _that_ interesting?”

Shmi sits bolt upright, looking around the still-empty room. There’s nobody there–

No.

There’s a slight red glow coming from under the bunk.

“Who are you?” Shmi asks, her voice calm. She’s not looking under that bunk until she absolutely has to.

“You know, I could be asking the same thing,” the voice says. She – it’s clearly a she – sounds dark, deadly – like some sort of carrion bird or jungle cat. “Here I was, minding my own business, trying to convince that neimoidian to steal my holocron, when suddenly Sidious’s apprentice brings me back – and then suddenly there you are, with your impenetrable shields. You can’t blame me for being curious, can you?”

A holocron, Shmi thinks. She thinks she’s heard that word before – something about the archives?

There’s a flicker of light, and then there’s a projection on the floor – it’s a human woman, projected all in red light and staring up at Shmi, a smirk on her face.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen a living Jedi,” the hologram – the holocron? – practically purrs.

“Who are you?” Shmi asks, trying to keep her voice calm and smooth.

The woman laughs. “For all your shielding, I can still sense your uncertainty, your _fear_.”

But you said I had impenetrable shields, Shmi thinks. Liar. There’s some other tell. She smooths over her face, lightens her voice. She is not going to let this holocron, whatever it is, know what she’s feeling. _There is no try_.

“Who are you?” Shmi asks again, calmly.

The woman’s eyes narrow. “A question for a question,” she snaps.

She’s lashing out, Shmi realizes. This… this holocron noticed my shielding, woke up, and found herself in a strange place. She may be angry and hateful, but… I’m not the only one who’s uncertain, here.

“I am Shmi Skywalker,” Shmi says quietly. “And you?”

The holocron bears her teeth. “Master Skywalker,” she says. “A _pleasure_ to meet you.”

I’m sure it is, Shmi thinks sarcastically. Strange, though, that the woman was so ready to call her a Jedi Master. “You as well,” Shmi says neutrally. “At least, I would say so if I knew what to call you…?”

She laughs. “Oh, you’re bold, for a Jedi,” she says. “Fine, then. A name for a name. I am Darth Zannah.” She disappears in a blink, her laugh seeming to still echo through Shmi’s tiny berth.

Shmi stares down at the spot where Darth Zannah had stood.

There is no way that this is going to turn out well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a (Mandalorian):  
> Ad’ika - little one, son, daughter, of any age  
> Chakaaryc - rotten, low-life, generic adjective to describe an undesirable person of dubious ethics  
> Mand'alor - "Sole ruler" (technically the person in charge of Mandalore/the mandalorians who decide they want to fight things)
> 
> Darth Zannah is technically a canon character, but I'm really mostly borrowing her from Flamethrower's Re-Entry, along with a few plot points surrounding her.
> 
> The Monday chapter might be a little late; I'll be camping for most of the weekend, so I may not have time to, you know, write it :P But we'll see what happens!
> 
> Edit: I actually realized that yesterday was the 1-month birthday of me starting this 'verse! Wow. That's terrifying. Thank you all!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Return to Coruscant

As much as Shmi would like to hide in her berth for the rest of the journey, she _is_ the ship’s cook – she has to come out to make the crew (and Jango, and Boba) meals. It’ll be lunch, dinner, breakfast, and lunch again before they arrive on Corellia.

Then again, she’s not so sure she wants to stay in her room, either, not with Darth Zannah liable to come out and… she’s not entirely sure what the holocron can do, but there’s very little chance that it’s good.

Outside of her room, she has to deal with Jango; inside, she may have to deal with Zannah. If she doesn’t want to be stuck hovering in the doorway inviting all sorts of trouble, she has to make a decision.

She chooses outside. At least she knows how to deal with Jango.

He glances up when she enters the room, but only for a second. “Thought you were going to get some rest.”

“I was feeling restless,” she says. “Boba’s calmer?”

He nods. “Went to sleep a bit ago. Say, I was wondering – the Captain said you’re only temporarily with this ship. I was wondering, if you don’t have a long-term job, would you be interested in taking one?”

Shmi blinks in surprise. “What?”

“I really can’t be taking Boba along on my jobs,” Jango says. “I thought I could manage it, but…” he shakes his head. “I need to find someone who can watch him while I’m out, someone who can take care of him, who knows how to handle children. Would you be interested in something like that?”

Shmi stares at him. Never in all the desert’s grains of sand would she have thought that this conversation would turn into a _job offer_.

“I can’t,” she says after a long moment. “I need to stay near Anakin, and he’s getting a coreworld education – that’s not something I can give up.”

“I understand,” Jango says, sighing. “It was worth a shot.”

“It’s a good idea,” Shmi says. “Finding someone to take care of Boba. Why not another mandalorian, though?”

Jango shrugs. “I’ve got reasons.”

Interesting, Shmi thinks. That a man who was the Mand’alor can’t trust his people.

“I don’t suppose you know anyone else who’d be suitable?” Jango asks, a joking tone in his voice but still clearly asking the question.

Shmi goes to shake her head, then pauses. “I might,” she says slowly.

Jango sits forwards, clearly listening.

She’s going to need to phrase this carefully, but there’s a seed of an idea growing in her mind. A possibility, a hope, but she can hear the Force whispering to her, _yes, yes, take your chance, plant your seed, see what grows of it_.

But she still needs to frame this carefully.

“The problem,” Shmi says, “Is that if you tell a slave _I’ll free you if you work for me_ , it’s far too easy to turn into another type of slavery.”

“Oh,” Jango says.

“It’s too easy,” Shmi continues. “To look at someone, and you think they’re free, but they can’t leave – whether it’s because of imagined debt, imagined duty, because of money, because of fear. It’s too easy for slavers to think they’re not slavers, all while they force people into chains, into a mold, into being a possession, a product.”

Jango _flinches_ at that, jostling Boba, who mumbles a bit in his sleep.

Shmi is starting to get the feeling that something very wrong is going on. But there’s no way she can find out _what_.

“How could one avoid that?” Jango asks, his voice sounding almost artificially calm.

Shmi considers it. “I don’t know,” she says bluntly. “You offer to free someone if they’ll work for you – what if they don’t want the work, but still want the freedom? Will your conscience let you leave them there, after dangling freedom in front of their eyes?”

Jango is quiet.

“The biggest problem in the galaxy is that people don’t help each other,” Shmi says softly. “But finding out _how_ to help people – that’s a struggle in and of itself.”

“If, theoretically, I had enough credits to help,” Jango said. “Enough credits to free a good amount of people. What place would you recommend I go to?”

Shmi takes a deep breath. “Mos Espa,” she says. “Tatooine, of course. If you made it clear that it was a job, not slavery, then Kelin Whitesun may be able to help. She’s got a daughter, a little older than my son. If she can’t help you, she may know who can.”

Jango nods slowly. “My thanks,” he says, and something about his tone is oddly formal. “Should you need assistance in the future, seek me out.”

“I will,” Shmi says slowly.

She wonders how he would react if he knew she were a Jedi.

That’s… definitely a subject best avoided.

They sit there together, in the quiet common room of the ship. Shmi can feel Jango’s anxiety, his tension, can feel him letting it dissipate as he holds Boba, as he lets himself relax.

This week has been one disaster after another – and every time Shmi’s felt like she could relax, something new has come up.

Not this time, though. She can practically hear the Force telling her to relax, to trust, to breathe.

If she’s played this right, she’s gotten off of Cato Neimoidia with some important information. She may have made a new… acquaintance? Source of information? Friend? She may have been able to convince someone else to free some of the slaves in Mos Espa.

She may have gotten some of the slaves freed.

She _has_ gotten some of the slaves freed, or will. She knows it, as sure as she knows her own name, as sure as she knows the Force.

She wants to weep in joy, dance through the ship – there’s nothing certain, no, but there _is_ , she can feel it deep in her bones. Kelin, Beru, Nari, Sel, Vaar, Darvin, countless others (no, not countless – she knows the numbers) others will be _freed_. She sings her joy out into the Force, her heart so full she can barely hold it. Boba giggles, and Jango grins at her. She can hear Xuka laughing from in the cockpit, and maybe thinks that she should tone it down a bit, but it just feels so _right_.

She feels Zannah wake again, open her holocron and wonder at the happiness pulsing through the force.

Shmi lets herself calm – doesn’t let the joy dissipate, but lets it smooth over, become more natural, less frantic and more warm.

She can’t hear it, but something in her is sure that Darth Zannah mutters “ _Interesting_ ,” as she deactivates her holocron.

The rest of the journey passes without incident – Shmi cooks, and talks mechanics with Alee, and teaches Jango some strategies for calming Boba down. She won’t say she’s sad to leave, when they finally land on Corellia, but she is definitely glad that Aza and their crew have given her their comm frequencies, and Jango’s given her his holonet address.

It’s easy enough to find one of Adi’s credit stashes, and there’s enough that she can pay Aza and purchase a ride to Coruscant on a transport ship. She doesn’t have a private room, but the ship is uncrowded enough that she’s the only one in it.

She takes a moment to revel in the solitude, in the fact that she’s on her way back to the Jedi temple–

“Interesting accommodations. I’d think that a Jedi Master would at least travel in _style_.”

Shmi refuses to startle at Darth Zannah’s voice.

“I’m sure that even the Sith have had reasons to be discreet on occasion,” Shmi replies.

“True, true,” Zannah says, sauntering into view. Her projection is only a foot or so tall, for all that she appears to be a fully grown human. “Then again, I wouldn’t think that a _Jedi_ would be projecting her emotions strongly enough for a ship full of non-sensitives to feel the force of it, either.”

Shmi shrugs.

Zannah frowns at her, looking – confused, but intent on finding an answer. “What are you?” She asks finally. “Not a Jedi.”

“I am a Jedi,” Shmi says. “Though I do wonder what makes you say I’m not.”

Zannah shakes her head disgustedly. “You _feel_ ,” she says. “You don’t push your emotions off to the side, or shrink back from me. You’re light, certainly, though you could reach the dark easily, if you wished.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Shmi asks. “And that’s an honest question, not a rhetorical one.”

“For _power_ ,” Zannah says. “To break the chains that have been set around you. To bring others to freedom, if that’s your thing, I suppose. To do things that you could _never_ do with the light side of the Force.”

Shmi nods slowly. “I can see how that would attract people,” she says.

Zannah stares at her, eyes narrowed. “But not you.”

“Why would I want power?” Shmi says. “What good would power do me?”

“Power to crush your enemies,” Zannah hisses. “Power to control worlds, to rise up, to be so strong that nobody will ever dare touch you again.”

“That seems ineffective, as a long-term solution,” Shmi says.

Zannah _stares_ at her.

Shmi waits for the holocron to gather her thoughts.

“You really don’t care,” Zannah says slowly.

“I care,” Shmi counters. “But if I do what you said, take power, crush systems beneath my knees, how will that help those who I wish to help? The problems are systemic, yes, but violence spreads more violence – you know this, I can tell. And violence can be good, revolutions are good. But crushing people won’t yield the results I want. I won’t be another master to the slaves.”

“What will you be, then?” Zannah asks.

It feels strange when Shmi speaks, as if it’s not quite her speaking, as if she’s not really speaking at all but _echoing_ – “The helping hand,” she says. “The path-walker, she who rusts the chains. I will be erosion, and the flowing river, wearing away slowly but surely, until not only the one but the many are freed. _I will be patience_.”

Shmi stares down at Zannah, as the Sith stares up at her. She reaches up a hand to touch her throat, slowly, as if to feel whether or not she had actually said that.

Zannah’s face is blank, and she’s shielding well enough that Shmi can’t tell what she’s feeling.

Shmi wants to ask _what was that, did I say that, what does that_ mean? But she doesn’t know Zannah well enough, doesn’t trust the Sith to answer those questions.

“That almost had the feel of prophecy about it,” Zannah says mildly.

“Did it,” Shmi says.

Zannah just hums a bit. “You’ve met Sith before,” she says, changing the subject completely. “Living ones?”

Shmi doesn’t want to change the topic, wants to understand whatever it was that she just said – prophecied? Saw?

But that’s something she’ll have to talk to Yoda about, and Yoda isn’t here right now.

“One,” Shmi says. “The apprentice, I think. A dathomiri zabrak, with red tattoos and a double-bladed lightsaber.”

Zannah snorts. “Maul. Is he dead?”

“As far as I know,” Shmi says.

“Good,” Zannah says, and Shmi looks at her, surprised. “Sidious and his apprentice are the worst of the latest batch of Sith – power, yes, and ambition, but no respect for his elders, no respect for the past.”

“No respect for you,” Shmi guesses. “Sexist?”

Zannah grins. “And humanocentric.”

“We’ll just have to do something about that, then,” Shmi says. “Won’t we?”

Zannah’s quiet for a long moment, tilting her head to the side. “You’re asking me for help,” she says finally. “You, a Jedi, however strange you are. Asking a Sith for help – against another Sith.”

Shmi nods once.

“I’ll think about it,” Zannah says, and vanishes back into her holocron.

 

* * *

 

Yoda is waiting for her on the landing platform.

“My padawan,” he says, and she kneels down and hugs him tightly.

“A long journey, you have had,” he says.

“I’ve heard that you got into some excitement of your own,” she says. “But… yes. It’s a relief to be back home.”

He takes a step back and she stands, hoisting her pack onto one shoulder.

Her lightsaber hangs at her belt again, and she’s redone her padawan braid. Part of her wants to say that she feels like a Jedi again – but she also knows that she never _stopped_ being a Jedi. It’s not something in her lightsaber, or her braid, or the Temple. A Jedi is something she is, now.

 _I am patience_ , something inside whispers to her, and she smiles.

They don’t talk any more as they make their way to the Jedi Temple – Shmi and Yoda both know how many prying ears there are on trains and ships. They don’t even talk as they enter the Temple, as Ani runs up to her and hugs her tightly.

“I was so _worried_ ,” he mumbles into her knees.

“Oh, Ani,” she says, and bends down to hug him. “I told you that I would come back.”

“But I saw you,” he says quietly. “Not all of it, but _some_ of it, I saw so many things that could go _wrong_ –”

“And did any of them go wrong?” She asks him.

He hesitates. “No,” he says.

Shmi nods. “Even if there are things that _can_ go wrong, that doesn’t mean they _will_. This is why you have to learn control, and patience.”

“So that I can know when to do something,” Ani says, looking down. “It’s just so _hard_.”

“I know it is,” Shmi says. “But does that make it not worth doing?”

Ani shakes his head, then hugs her once more, tightly.

“Back to the crèche, you should go, young one,” Yoda says. “A long journey, your mother has had; rest, she deserves.”

Ani nods vigorously. “Remember to eat and drink lots of water,” he says solemnly, as if he’s the one taking care of her, then runs off.

“An emotional child, he is,” Yoda grumbles.

We’re going to need to have a talk about emotions soon, Shmi thinks. “He is,” she says, making it clear that she approves.

Yoda sighs and shakes his head.

Returning to her and Yoda’s rooms is a relief. Nobody watching her, congratulating her on her return, no chance to slip up and get killed by bounty hunters or Sith.

“I found some things,” Shmi says without preamble, once the door has closed. “A comm code that might lead to the Sith, though he might have changed it by now. And…” she takes a deep breath. “The Sith’s name is Sidious. He doesn’t have a spy in the senate. He’s _in_ the senate.”

“Certain, are you?” Yoda asks quietly.

“Reasonably,” Shmi says. “And… I’ve got another source of information, too.”

Yoda’s eyes narrow. “Another source, hmmm?”

Shmi sighs. “She’s been… I don’t want to say _helpful_ ,” she says. “But this is an opportunity to learn more than we could have imagined, if we do this properly.” Then before Yoda can ask any more questions, she takes out Darth Zannah’s holocron and sets it on the table.

Yoda sits stone still, and she can feel his conflicting emotions rolling off of him. “A holocron of the Sith,” he says. “Spoken to you, it has?”

“I have, actually!” Zannah flickers into being, looking around the room before her eyes alight on Yoda. “Master Yoda. What an… _honor_ it is to be here,” she spits out.

“Your corrupting ways will find no foothold here,” he growls at her.

“You know, strangely enough, that’s true,” she says, and Yoda draws back, surprised. “As much as I _hate_ to say it, your Master Skywalker is… strange.”

Yoda’s eyes flicker towards Shmi.

 _She didn’t realize I was a padawan,_ Shmi says in his mind. _I didn’t see any particular reason to dissuade her, just in case_.

“Hmmm,” Yoda says. “Strange, she is; but welcome here. Information, you have, on Sidious, hmmm?”

“I’ve got some information,” Zannah agrees. “Though whether I’d be willing to give it to _you_ –”

“Stop that,” Shmi says, and both of them turn to look at her in surprise. “Zannah, relax. I’m not going to let him destroy your holocron, or whatever it is you fear. Master Yoda, the only way she’d corrupt you is turning your own fear against you.” _And more importantly, I will not let her_ , Shmi tells Yoda.

“I am not _fearful_ ,” Zannah snaps, but Shmi can feel her relax the tiniest bit.

 _Let my emotions control me, I did_ , Yoda says sadly in her mind.

 _And now you can talk to her without fear_ , Shmi tells him. _It’s all right to be afraid of the Sith._

 _Discuss this later, we must_ , he tells her, and she nods.

“Zannah,” Shmi says. “Do you have any idea who in the senate Sidious is?”

Zannah makes a face. “He didn’t trust me with information _that_ sensitive. He knows I’ll betray him given half a chance. What I _do_ know is that his plans have something to do with a group trying to declare independence from the republic. Also,” she says, almost as an afterthought, “He’s not worried about finding a new apprentice. He’s not training one up from childhood this time; I don’t know who it is, but he’s trying to turn someone.”

“A Jedi?” Yoda asks.

Zannah shrugs elegantly. “Maybe a Jedi. Maybe another Nightbrother, or a Nightsister. Maybe a Baran Do Sage. Maybe something completely different.”

“Helpful, you said she might be,” Yoda says to Shmi.

Shmi opens her mouth to tell him to not be rude, but before she can, the door bangs open. Zannah vanishes into her holocron; thankfully, Shmi is standing in between the physical pyramid and whoever’s at the door.

“Master Yoda!” It’s a padawan, from the looks of it – a padawan healer.

“What reason have you, for barging in, careless?” Yoda snaps.

The padawan takes a deep breath. Shmi can feel the padawan’s adrenaline, their energy – but no fear, no worry, other than a slight tinge. Mostly… mostly _excitement_.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt you,” the padawan says. “But Master Qui-Gon’s awake!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably going to be just one more chapter in this (unless suddenly my muse pulls a u-turn, which is not exactly out of the realm of possibility). After that I'm either going to a) take a break, like a sane person, or b) jump right back in and start writing the next installment, and I think we all know that it's probably going to be option b. I'm thinking, though, that I might do a bit of a time-jump, right to the start of the Clone Wars. Maybe. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> Though if anyone wants to come ask me random questions about this 'verse, my [ask box](mirandatam.tumblr.com/ask) is open!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusions, discussions, and beginnings

“We need to talk,” Shmi says, staring out at the Coruscant skyline. There’s a wonderful view from the healers’ floor, and Qui-Gon’s room is dark inside, allowing him rest.

(“I don’t _need_ rest,” he’d argued. “I’ve apparently been asleep for _months_ –”

“In a coma is not the same as _asleep_ , Master Jinn, you need _actual rest_ –”

The argument had ended when Qui-Gon had drifted off in the middle of a sentence.)

Yoda glances around the room – at Qui-Gon, asleep in his bed, breathing slow but steady, in a true sleep rather than a coma. Obi-Wan, passed out on a chair next to his bed. Ani, curled up and snoring gently, leaning on Dooku’s shoulder, the Jedi Master just as asleep as Shmi’s son.

“Quietly,” he says. “Rest, they all need. Rest, _you_ need.”

“You need rest, too,” Shmi says. “We all do. But this discussion needs to happen.”

Yoda sighs. “True, that is,” he says. “Very well.” He settles himself cross-legged in one of the chairs, Shmi sitting across from him.

“Calm, we must be, as Jedi,” Yoda says. “Distract us, emotions will; endanger us. Endanger others, as well. Set us on the path to the dark side, they will, left unchecked.”

“But emotions don’t preclude calm,” Shmi counters. “I can feel my joy and remain calm and collected; I can feel my anger and remain calm and collected. Or I can be perfectly emotionless and still be out of control. In my time, I’ve seen lack of care cause more pain than caring ever has.”

Yoda’s ears droop a bit. “True, it is, that indifference may lead to pain,” he says. “And sorry, I am, that so much pain, you have seen. But lead to the dark side, does anger unchecked; lead to hate, it does. And much suffering, the spread of hate causes.”

Shmi nods.

Yoda looks surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to agree.

“The problem here,” Shmi says, “Is that we mean different things by _unchecked_. You see all anger as uncontrollable. But if anger can be controlled, not dispelled but acknowledged and addressed, then it can be resolved peacefully. Not all anger is evil. I felt angry when Watto beat Ani or me, and when Qui-Gon bet his entire mission on my son’s life. But was that anger unjustified?”

Yoda takes a long time to answer. One minute, then two–

“Completely justified,” Qui-Gon murmurs from his bed.

“Asleep, you should be,” Yoda snaps.

“And you’re a little angry now,” Qui-Gon mumbles on, “Both at the Sith and at me, and a bit at yourself – you shouldn’t be angry at yourself, he tricked us all.”

“Insufferable, my line is,” Yoda snaps. “Uncontrollable, stubborn–”

“Insults are a good method to help express anger healthily,” Shmi says helpfully. “Identifying the source of your anger helps you address what’s causing it – you’re fixing the problem, not the symptoms.”

Yoda stares at the two of them for a long moment, then sighs. “Angry, I am,” he agrees. “Deny evidence, I will not. Adress the root, hmmm?” He closes his eyes, and his breaths even out into meditation-style. “Feel that helped you more, I should have,” he says. “A trick, I know it was; fell for it, I did. Fall for it again, I may. Change that, I cannot.”

“We can find the Sith,” Shmi says. “We can stop him, make sure that he’ll hurt nobody in the future.”

“Hmmm.” Yoda nods slowly. “An invisible thorn, this anger has been in me; now that see it, I can, address it, I can.” He opens his eyes; in the dark of the room, they reflect the hundreds of tiny lights of Coruscant. “See what you are saying, I believe I do.” He shakes his head. “Flawed, our teachings are not; but _twisted_ , hmm.”

Shmi feels chill-bumps raise on the back of her neck. “The senate has some measure of control over the Jedi Order,” she says slowly.

“They have ever since the Ruusan Reformation,” Qui-Gon says tiredly, ignoring Yoda’s and Shmi’s quiet requests that he go back to sleep. “Ever since the Sith were thought to be destroyed.”

 _But they weren’t destroyed_ , Shmi thinks, letting Yoda hear the thought. _They went into hiding. There’s one in the senate – but how long have they been pulling the strings?_

 _Limited, Darth Zannah’s information is,_ Yoda lets her know. _Darth Bane’s apprentice, she was; the last of the known Sith, he was. Passed, a thousand years have, and changed, the galaxy is, from what she knows._

 _It’ll take years to piece together the Sith’s influence,_ Shmi thinks. _Let alone start undoing it_.

 _Years, it may take_ , Yoda says. _But first_ … “Acknowledge my emotions, I will,” he says. “If help the Jedi Order, help _me_ , it will. Yet the only one, I will not be.” He glares across the room at Qui-Gon. “A duty, you have been neglecting.”

“I’ve been neglecting many duties, it seems,” Qui-Gon agrees. “I’ve… I didn’t even realize how careless I was being, how…” He takes a deep breath. “I won’t be able to truly stand for another month, maybe more. Do you think he would wait–”

“Waited long enough, he has,” Yoda says, but sighs. “A little longer, I doubt he would mind waiting. But _his_ decision, that is.”

Qui-Gon closes his eyes. “I’ll be able to stand in two weeks, then,” he says.

“No, you won’t,” Shmi says, amused. “And if you hurt yourself trying to stand too soon, it’ll only take even _longer_. Have some patience, Master Jedi.”

“Patience,” Qui-Gon says. “Fine. I suppose I can try.”

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan’s knighting ceremony takes place three days before Anakin’s birthday, two months after Qui-Gon has woken up and a month into his physical therapy for atrophied muscles and damaged nerves.

Shmi watches from a distance, beside Siri, Bant, Quinlan, and Obi-Wan’s other friends. Anakin stands closer than he should strictly be standing, hopping impatiently from foot to foot until Shmi puts a hand on his shoulder.

Qui-Gon, still shaky on his feet, cuts Obi-Wan’s braid, then embraces him; Shmi doesn’t know what he’s saying, but whatever it is, it brings tears to Obi-Wan’s eyes.

“Welcome, newest Knight of our Order,” Mace Windu says, and as one, the council bows to Obi-Wan.

Later, at the party, Shmi goes in search of Obi-Wan and finds him and Qui-Gon in a quieter part of the gardens.

“–Always been proud of you,” Qui-Gon is saying. “And if I didn’t say that, if I didn’t show it, Padawan, it was never your fault, but mine, and I am so _sorry_ –”

Shmi decides that there are other people she can be talking to right now.

The gardens are bright, lit with dozens of small lights on strings – Siri had called them star-lights, and Quinlan had called them fairy-lights, and they’d nearly gotten into a friendly fistfight over the issue before Bant had come up and declared them fish-lights.

“Why fish-lights?” Quinlan had asked, so confused that he’d forgotten to put his fists down.

“Well,” Bant had said. “When you’re swimming deep in the oceans, sometimes the only thing you can see are these little strings of lights, trailing along, one after the other.”

“Schools of fish,” Siri had realized.

Bant had just snorted. “No. A _big_ fish. When you see fish-lights, you know that you should _run_.”

However amazing water is, Shmi never would want to be on an entire _planet_ of it, because fish sound _terrifying_.

Now, of course, Siri and Quinlan have roped a small group (a group including Adi and some other councilors, no less) into some sort of drinking game, one which Mace Windu appears to be winning.

“We should get Obi-Wan,” Siri says. “He can drink everyone else under the table–”

Shmi moves on before someone tries to get her to try drinking someone under a table.

It’s a small celebration, but definitely an exuberant one. Celebrating Qui-Gon’s awakening, Obi-Wan’s knighting, and Anakin’s birthday (a little early, but who cares, when there’s cake?)

Ani himself is sitting by a small group of his friends, mechanical parts scattered all around them.

“So it’s like sand,” he’s explaining as Shmi walks close enough to eavesdrop. “You let it sink to the bottom of the glass, so that the water can be disturbed but the sand stays steady.”

“Why don’t they ever just _say_ that?” One of his friends demands.

Ani shrugs. “My mom says that they’re being silly, but also probably ‘cause it’s how _they_ were taught.”

“And the feelings thing,” another of his friends says. “That’s… that’s really okay?”

“Uh-huh!” Ani grins. “’Cause my mom’s _Master Yoda’s_ padawan, and she says it’s true and it makes sense, too, right?”

Yoda is going to kill her for corrupting the younglings.

Or maybe he’s going to _help_ her, based on what she hears as she wanders around to yet another secluded glade in the garden.

“A thousand years of tradition, overwritten because of one woman?”

“A thousand years of tradition,” Yoda says tiredly, “Because right, it feels. Because admit our faults, we can; because sing, the Force does, that correct, this is. Not for everyone, no,” Yoda sighs, “Your path, this may not be. But padawan of mine–”

“If we’ve been wrong this whole time,” Dooku interrupts, “If our teachings have brought harm to the galaxy–”

“Impulsive, you still are,” Yoda snaps. “Impatientce, hmph. Helped the galaxy, we have. Help differently, we may; help _more_ , we may. Invalidate the help that has been given, this does _not_.”

“What are you going to tell the rest of the council?” Dooku shoots back. “The rest of the _Order_?”

“Thinking too far ahead, you are,” Yoda says. “My padawan, have patience. Have _faith_. Cross this storm, we will, and come out the stronger for it.”

“Forgive me if it doesn’t sound like that,” Dooku says bitterly, then Shmi hears him stalking off towards the exit.

Shmi wants to intervene, but Dooku is already gone, and Yoda… she peers into the clearing. Yoda appears to have climbed a tree to be alone.

She doesn’t exactly want to tell him that his reassurances had been bad reassurances, but… Dooku was looking for words of comfort, and that wasn’t what Yoda had been giving him.

It was a little sad when two accomplished Jedi Masters were worse at talking to each other than a group full of nine-year-olds.

Maybe she should make the nine-year-olds _their_ teachers, and watch how it turns out!

… The sad thing is that that’s probably not a horrible idea.

“Mom?”

Shmi turns to see Ani, looking unusually solemn for what should be a happy occasion.

“What is it?” she asks. “Is everything–”

“Everything’s fine,” he says, then sniffles a bit.

“Is it?” She says, and sits down on a bench, gesturing for Ani to sit next to her.

“When…” Ani takes a deep breath. “When Obi-Wan becomes my master, you’ll still be my mom, right?”

“Oh, Ani,” she says, and hugs him. “Of course I will.”

Her son’s emotions are twisting and conflicted – joy for Obi-Wan, fear for Shmi, his worry that he’ll have to choose one over the other.

“Yoda choosing me didn’t make you stop being my son,” she says. “And Obi-Wan choosing you won’t stop me from always being your mother. You understand?”

He nods against her chest, still holding her tightly.

“It’s not a replacement, or a swap,” she continues. “It’s an _addition_. They become family _too_ , not _instead of_. And if anyone tells you otherwise… you just direct them to me, and I’ll set them straight.”

Ani giggles a bit, pulling back from the hug. “Okay,” he says, and wipes a tear-track off his face. “Okay. I can do this.”

“You can do this,” Shmi agrees, pulling him forward and kissing his forehead. “And so that you don’t forget…” She pulls Ani’s gift out of her pocket; no reason not to give it a little early.

His eyes widen as he holds the carefully-carved japoor snippet in his hands. It’s traditional to give one before a separation, before time spent apart – or as a physical reminder, a physical bond.

“Where did you get this?” he whispers. “Did… did you go _back_?”

Shmi laughs a bit and shakes her head. “You’d be surprised by what you can find in the lower levels. Ani, when you wear this, remember that no matter what, I will always be your mother, and I will _always_ love you, even when the suns burn out and beyond, into the blackness of the night. Remember that, and be strong, and be kind.”

“And come to you if the other Jedi start acting too weird?” Ani grins at her.

“Of course,” Shmi says, and grins back. “Now, go out there. Be a Jedi, Ani.”

“I will, Mom,” he says. “I’ll be a Jedi like you are, and it’s gonna be great!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Well, for now. For the next week or so.  
> ... Probably till Monday.
> 
> I've still got some planning to do before I start the next part of this story, in all honesty, so it may be a little longer than that, but I'll try not to make it be too much longer! Thank you all so much for your comments, your kudoses, everything.
> 
> _~~I'll be a Jedi like my mother before me~~ _

**Author's Note:**

> This one is going to update more slowly than "In all your wanderings" did, in all likelihood, and is probably also going to be a lot more spread out. It's going to focus on Shmi's training in the period between TPM and AoTC.
> 
> I might also be posting up drabbles in the series, from the POV of other characters, though that's not a guarantee. We'll see what happens!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Winds of change and chance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13100892) by [MirandaTam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaTam/pseuds/MirandaTam), [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




End file.
